


Blood and Ashes

by Umeko



Series: Daughter of Fire [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Drama, F/M, War of Wrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:24:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 29
Words: 61,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5392487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umeko/pseuds/Umeko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a stranger comes to Valinor bearing the Silmaril, the Valar prepare for war against Morgoth. Feanor's daughter joins the Host of the Valar as her uncle Arafinwe's herald. Will she be able to talk her remaining brothers out of their madness?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Sail from the East

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third instalment of the Mornel chronicles and sequel to Return of the Prince. It is rated M for a reason, although the first few chapters are a T at most. (Also posted on ff.net)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A festival is interrupted in Taniquetil when a stranger comes to Aman with the Silmaril.

_A shining white bird, a white sail… A brilliant light…_  

It was the same dream again.  _What do you want of me?_  Mornel screamed silently at the shadowy figures at the bow of the approaching ship. Yet she knew she was not who they sought. 

Mornel started into wakefulness as the vision melted away. She was lying in a guest chamber in King Ingwe's palace. The High King had finally relented and allowed Mornel to enter his city for the upcoming celebrations at Taniquetil. All the nobles of the Noldor and Vanyar were invited to attend, and it would be remiss of Ingwe to deny Lady Mornel, a Noldorin princess and leader of the prospering city of Formenos, a place under his roof. Tirion would be near-empty, Helwien had informed her. The common folk would also make their way to the festival, whether as part of some lord's escort or for the festival fair. Both Mahtan and Helwien had carts outside the city walls selling their wares. There the twins had purchased a candlestick styled as a bird and a bolt of shimmery blue silk for their parents. 

King Arafinwe and his queen had been granted the use of High King's guesthouse which they shared with their son and law-daughters, Eldalote and Amarie. Aunt Anaire was staying with a cousin outside the palace. Aunt Findis was sharing Grandmother Indis' rooms in the palace, which were specially set aside for her use during her many visits to her maiden home. Lesser nobles like Mornel were regaled to the pokey guest chambers under the eaves but Ingwion's twins were more than happy to share her company. Mornel glanced over to her companions – Ingwion's twins, Lomire and Isilmire. The sisters were still sleeping on the cots set up for them. As disciples of Este, they had forgone the privileges of their birth as Aunt Findis did. It was only at their amme's behest that they had returned to Valmar for the festivities. 

For a dreadful moment, the twins' red and white coverlets gleamed in the moonlight like blood on snow to Mornel's still bleary sight. She stifled the urge to scream and shake the pair. Instead she waited until the red and white patterns took on the likeness of red poppies on a white background. Elsornie had near worked her fingers to the bone stitching her daughters' coverlets. She would not appreciate her lovely flowers being mistaken for blood splatters. 

Something was coming and Mornel could sense it in the wind and the rising sun. 

She did not know then that in far-off Alqualonde, King Olwe and his court were cautiously inspecting a strange vessel which had landed some miles outside their city the night before. The occupants of the craft held great interest for them too, for they were elves from beyond the girdle of enchanted isles fencing Valinor from the outside.

* * *

"Where is he?" Elwing fretted. Her husband had gone on without her or his crew, ordering them to remain on board and thus avoid the penalty for setting foot on Aman. The elves of Alqualonde had been kind, offering provisions by means of gestures and a tongue not too dissimilar from theirs. Earendil had struck out for Tirion, whose gleaming white spire they could espy even from the beach, well before dawn. His progress did not go unnoticed by the mighty Eagles which soared high above the pass. 

Lord Manwe considered the reports his sharp-eyed Eagles brought up to his throne on Taniquetil. He had sensed the Silmarili's approach. All his comrades had sensed it too - the Light of the Trees returning to Valinor. Yet he knew it would not be theirs to hold. Too much blood had been shed already. Too many tormented elves filled the Halls of Mandos. 

Finally, he called for his herald and commanded Eonwe to be there in Tirion to greet the sailor. He was to bring him to the Mahanaxar to face judgement for daring to defy the Ban.

* * *

"Something is happening, I do not know what," Prince Ingwion reported when Arafinwe inquired as to why the procession had come to a sudden halt. The gifts and offerings to the Valar had to be presented before the official celebration started in the Vanyar court.

The High King had been more than a little perturbed when his entourage of nobles arrived at the foot of Taniquetil for the ceremony and was curtly informed by Lord Manwe's attendant Maiar that their Lord had gone to the Ring of Doom. The last time the Valar had convened in the Ring, as the Eldar knew, was during the Darkening. Such meetings were not taken lightly. This was a most inauspicious start to the week-long Festival of the Trees, the nobles grumbled with unease. The festival had started as a solemn rite to honour the last fruit and flower of the Trees. It had since morphed into a big event for the Vanyar and Noldor every two yeni or so. 

"Perhaps Lord Manwe is tired of hearing the same peon of thanksgiving from grandfather every time," Isilmire whispered. Her sister giggled and the pair received a warning glare from their grandmother. Grumbling under their breaths, the procession returned to the palace to await any news from the Valar. As Mornel trailed behind the main body of the procession, she felt a growing unease in her heart as she gazed upon the backs of her uncle Arafinwe and Ingwion's twins as they chatted about the fair. 

"Cousin," Finrod slowed his pace to walk alongside Mornel. "Do you feel it? The time is nearing." He was alone. Amarie had gone on ahead with Earwen. 

"Aye," Mornel nodded. Above their heads, a lone eagle soared against the sky and screamed. The cousins walked closer together on the path, both thinking how the scream sounded like a battle cry.

 

* * *

It would be many tense hours, almost two days, before the Valar finally summoned the kings of the Eldar to the Ring of Doom. Queen Earwen was summoned there in her father's stead, for there was little time for Olwe to embark on the journey from Alqualonde. However, a Maia was sent to Alqualonde to inform King Olwe of a task he and his son were required to undertake at Lord Ulmo's behest. 

To pass the time, Finrod took up his harp. He entertained his wife and cousins in his grandmother's chambers with melodies. Mornel was glad to see how the joy of music had returned to her cousin's songs. Amarie accompanied him on her lute. The twins sang soft Vanyarin ballads to the pair's music. Mornel declined to sing, discreetly explaining that most Formenean ballads were far fruitier and might cause offence to polite company. Finrod jokingly reminded Amarie of a certain ditty about an elf selling plums. His wife flushed crimson at the memory.

It was late into the night when Arafinwe and Earwen returned with King Ingwe. Ingwe immediately summoned his son and councillors to the Council Hall despite the hour. Arafinwe sent out messengers to the Noldor nobles in Valmar for an urgent meeting in the morning before heading for Lady Indis' rooms. Ingwion's daughters had retired for the night by then but Finrod, Amarie, and Mornel were still bidding their goodnights to Lady Indis. It was the Vanyar’s practice to retire early on most nights and rise with the dawn, though exceptions were made for certain celebrations. 

"Amme," Arafinwe kissed his mother on the cheek. "Apologies for the disturbance, but I would speak with everyone." Taking his mother's hand in his right, he reached out to grasp his wife's hand with his left. Earwen nodded reassuringly. Sensing the tension, Amarie reached for Finrod's hand. Finrod stood frozen and ramrod straight although he did grasp her hand in his tight enough to cause her to wince visibly. He murmured an apology. Mornel stood alone, her hands clutching her harp so tightly her knuckles showed white. 

"The Valar has given orders that the Eldar make ready for war against the Dark Lord, both Vanyar and Noldor alike." 

"What of the Teleri?" Indis gasped. 

"I know my people as well as my atar. They will not set foot on the Hither Shores nor fight alongside the Noldor," Earwen answered with her eyes downcast. Despite the reaffirmation of cordial ties between the Noldor and Teleri, the memories of the Kinslaying were too deep to be forgotten easily. Many might be wary of fighting on the same battlefield as the Noldor. 

"And who could blame them?" Finrod sighed. "However, we sorely need their skill lest we need to cross the Ice …" The losses of the Noldor during the crossing had been horrendous. Even grown warriors had succumbed to the biting cold and despair as well as the treacherous ice which would give way without warning under their feet. 

"My son, I will hasten to Alqualonde upon the morn, perhaps they could be persuaded still…" Vessels would be needed to ferry their forces for the coming war. There was one other task Earwen knew she had to carry out. "I will travel with Lady Anaire. There is need of her presence in Alqualonde." 

"My dear, you have a long day ahead. I have already sent a message to Lady Anaire to meet you at the East Gate at dawn. Horses will be readied for you both. Go rest now," Arafinwe urged. "May your journey be fruitful." With lingering look, Earwen let go of her husband's hand and bade them a goodnight before leaving the room. 

Arafinwe then turned his attention to his son and niece. "Findarato, Mornel, we have need of you to attend to our visitor – he hails from Beleriand… He has come to seek the Valar's aid for the peoples of the Hither Shores, both First and Second-born. The havens of the Eldar have been all but overrun by the forces of Shadow… " 

Finrod gave a strangled cry and swayed slightly on his feet at his father's words. Mornel nodded grimly and silently urged her uncle continue. 

"The Valar have decided to grant him their aid," Arafinwe confirmed. "He is of the lineage of my brother Nolofinwe. His grandfather is Turukano through his daughter Itarille. His father is of the Second-born…" 

"How could this be?" Indis exclaimed. "Itarille would never wed a mere Man!" To have a half-elven descendant was beyond her comprehension. 

"Who's not to say this is the will of Iluvatar, grandmother?" Finrod spoke with a small smile. "After all, Elwe wedded a Maia as his queen and sired the half-Maia Luthien…" 

"His name is Earendil. With him sailed his wife, Elwing, the granddaughter of Luthien and the Man Beren… The Valar have forgiven their defiance of the Ban, on the condition that they and their elven crew remain in Aman, never more to set foot on the Hither Shores. In addition for their selfless reasons for their quest for Valinor, the half-elven Earendil and Elwing have been given a choice of cleaving to their elven kindred or taking the path of their mortal kin. As yet, Earendil has declined to make the choice pending his wife's decision," Arafinwe concluded. 

"Were there any elflings with them?" Mornel blurted out suddenly. Arafinwe stared at his niece. 

"Nay, they sailed with a crew of grown elves. We understand from Earendil that there had been an attack on their homes in which his twin sons were believed to be slain," the Noldoran paused for a few moments. "The attack was led by your brothers, Mornel, for the Silmaril which was then in Elwing's possession and now sits guarded in the Ring of Doom. It was the light of the Silmaril which had guided Earendil's vessel to Valinor." 

Indis gave a horrified cry at the thought of elves turning on elves once more. 

"It would seem the accursed Oath drives my cousins into madness as we speak…" Finrod commented grimly. 

"Lord Eonwe would meet you in the morning and bring you to Earendil. Now, to bed. There is much to be done tomorrow," Arafinwe declared. Obediently, the younger elves filed out in silence. 

"My son, you will lead the armies of the Noldor, wouldn't you?" Indis asked. "And Ingwion those of the Vanyar? I know my brother too well for him to uproot himself from this blessed realm," Indis rose from her armchair and took hold of Arafinwe's sleeve. 

"Aye, amme…" 

"You have my blessings as well as the Valar's, my son. Do be careful…" Indis added as she stroked Arafinwe's hair. Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed her son on the brow for her youngest had long outgrown her in height.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a while for me to come up with a reasonable narrative for Earendil's arrival to Valinor and his journey to Tirion during a time of festival when all the Noldor were away for the festival. I imagine that it was a huge festival lasting several days but the Teleri did not celebrate the festival. It would take some time for him to make his way from the beach near Alqualonde to Tirion.
> 
> Lomire – dusk-jewel  
> Isilmire – moon-jewel


	2. The Castaways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornel and Finrod meet Earendil. Olwe and sons fetch a pair of castaways to Alqualonde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone wondering what happened to Earendil’s parents? That will be answered soon.

Lord Eonwe was herald of the King of the Valar and stern in his demeanour. He reminded Mornel of the High King Ingwe in a way. Mornel almost wished it had been her friend Olorin who had been assigned to take them to Earendil. Amarie had followed her husband to meet with the Maia, intending to volunteer her services to their guest's lady-wife. However, at a look from the imposing Eonwe, all she could manage was a stuttering apology before a hasty departure.

The Maia took the elves to a house on the outskirts of Valmar guarded by two Vanyar elves bearing spears. Recognizing Eonwe, the pair proudly saluted.

"Has our guest arisen?" Eonwe queried.

"Aye, he did not retire to his room after he supped," one of the guards replied warily. "My Lord, is he as dangerous as His Majesty Ingwe claims? He seems but a child in years…"

"Dangerous? Nay, not in the least," Eonwe gave a low chuckle. His stern demeanour slipped for a moment. "Indeed he is a mere child compared to us. Now announce our arrival to him."

The figure that rose from the chair by the fireplace on their entry into the parlour was like an elf in form and fairness. Yet there was something different about him.  _Half-elven,_ her uncle had described their guest. Then it struck her – the ears peeking out from his tangled golden mop of hair. Instead of pointed tips, they were rounded. Perhaps that was a sign of his Mannish heritage.

"They took away my dirk and refused to let me go to my crew!" Earendil shouted in Sindarin. "Why are we wasting time here when the Valar have already promised…" Their guest was pacing like a caged tiger – one of those striped beasts of southern Aman whose skins were treasured by certain Avari for the danger in hunting one. The guards were right. Despite his mature stature, he was young by Eldar standards. There were dark circles around his eyes and his fingers raked agitatedly through the tangled ends of his shoulder-length hair. The cares of his quest still weighed heavily on him. He had changed his travel-worn garments for clean ones provided by his Vanyar hosts but they did not fit him in the least. The tunic had been taken in at the waist with a belt. The sleeves had likewise been rolled up to his elbows.

"Curb your temper, lest we think you of Feanaro's line instead of Nolofinwe's," Eonwe chided in Quenya. Earendil scowled fiercely at the Maia. Mornel glanced about the sparsely-furnished room. Apart from the chair Earendil had been occupying, there were two wooden chairs and a small table on which a breakfast tray lay untouched. The dried sauce stain on the floor suggested Earendil had not enjoyed his supper as much as the guards would suggest.

" _Mae govannen,_  Earendil," Finrod greeted him in Sindarin with one of his disarming smiles. "You have come a long way from Beleriand. Allow me to introduce ourselves… This stubborn mule here is Lord Eonwe, the esteemed herald of the mighty Lord Manwe. This is my cousin Lady Mornel… who is also your kinswoman through the House of Finwe. I am Prince Findarato Ingoldo of Tirion-on-Tuna, though you might know me better as Finrod Felagund…"

Lord Eonwe gave a scandalized look at being described as a mule and left the room in a huff. An awed look came over Earendil's face and he stopped his pacing. Mornel was reminded once more of an elfling. Finrod had explained in his journals that Mannish children matured far sooner physically than elflings even though elflings attain their intellectual maturity sooner.

"Finrod Felagund? The Finrod Felagund who partook in the Quest for the Silmaril?"

"Well, yes…" Finrod flushed crimson. He knew the tale of Beren and Luthien had been cemented as legend in Beleriand, along with his ill-fated part in the quest. Bards in Aman had latched onto the tale once he recorded it in the archives and honoured him with odes to his courage to his immense embarrassment. He would rather have Mornel's satiric ballad on him getting mobbed by a pack of Snowdrop's puppies over a constant reminder of how badly the quest went for him and his comrades.

"Rest now, Earendil. If not, eat," Mornel urged calmly. "There is much we need to discuss and prepare for before embarking on war against Morgoth. You will need your strength. Rest assured your crew will be cared for. Your wife will be joining you…"

"Elwing?" Earendil allowed Mornel to settle him into an armchair and rest the breakfast tray in his lap. "I do not know… have my parents not arrived yet in Valinor? They put to sea many years past…" He took the goblet of water Mornel had poured out and offered him. She then pulled up the remaining chairs beside the fireplace so that they might speak at length in comfort.

"Alas, it would seem I was the only one of the Exiles released from Mandos and the Valar have forbidden that any return across the sea from Beleriand," Finrod shook his head sadly. When Valinor was hidden, the Valar had sent mighty tempests to sink any vessel which dare venture westward. Those who survived the tempests were than entrapped by thick fog and enchanted isles on which they would fall into a lasting slumber and thus slip into Mandos. The elves of Tol Eressea spoke of the strange mist-shrouded isles to the east of their island to which they were forbidden to venture by Ulmo's decree.

* * *

_On the sea off Tol Eressea…_

"I stand corrected – it is a rotten idea letting you two aboard a ship so soon…" Olwe remarked as his two recently re-embodied sons leaned over the side losing their stomach contents. He had been reluctant but his sons had clamoured so much to be allowed to sail with them on this errand of Lord Ulmo's.

"It's the waves," Raumeldo protested. He had been the Master of Ships in his first life and his current bout of seasickness was a stinging blow to his pride. His elder brother Eareldo was too sick to reply.

"What waves, brother? There is nary a white-cap in sight. Shall I call Lord Osse over?" Earlindo called out from where he was steering.

"NO!" the older princes yelled before losing the rest of their breakfast over the side. Newly-returned elves were delicate. It had taken two cycles of the sun before Earlindo was able to get on a boat in harbour without turning green in the face. His older sons were barely a fortnight back from Lorien.  _Ah well, at least the fish would feed well._  Olwe shrugged.

In the waves some distance from the craft, Osse frowned as he splashed about. He was sure they left them here… but with the enchanted islands, one could not be sure they remained where you last left one.

"Sure this is the correct one, dearest?" Uinen asked. Though the fog had lifted and the isles ceased their constant movement, it was hard to find what they sought. Twice they had landed on an island to find the rotten hull of a ship and the bleached bones of its occupants on the sand. Such was the fate of the few expeditions from Gondolin that survived Osse's storms. Only one elf had been spared by Lord Ulmo for a greater Doom. Voronwe Aranwion now boarded at the harbourmaster's house with his crewmates until alternative lodgings could be found for them.

The island rose from the waves like an emerald. King Olwe wondered if it had been the same island his law-son and daughter had been intentionally marooned on so long ago. The dried timbers of a ship littered the shore as they approached but there was something orderly about the way they were propped up. There was cry of joy and a blond figure emerged from behind the crude shelter waving her shawl. Barefoot, she ran to meet their rescuers.

Idril knew their tribulations were at an end when the white sail neared them. It seemed such a long time ago that she and her husband gave in to his sea-longing and sailed westwards, braving storms only to land on this isle and fall almost instantly into an enchanted slumber. When she awoke, she was aware that time had slipped past them by the sorry state of their once-proud vessel. She had feared for her spouse. In his fifty-third year, Tuor had been succumbing to the mortal fate of aging when they sailed. Yet Tuor was now seemingly untouched by the passing of time and Idril was thankful for it. One of her worst fears was awaking to her husband dead of old age beside her. Tuor had set off to explore the rocky shore and find some food and fresh water. He promptly slipped on some seaweed and broke his leg. It was a miracle Idril managed to help him back to their crude shelter. He now rested in the shade with a crude splint applied to his wounded leg.

"Itarille, how you have grown!" Olwe exclaimed as he embraced the nis he last saw as an elfling when she visited Alqualonde with her parents so many yeni past.

"Your Majesty, Prince Earlindo," she greeted her rescuers in halting Quenya. The language of the Sindar had all but replaced Quenya for daily use in Beleriand, even in hidden Gondolin. Quenya had slowly become a formal language used solely for courtly rites and ceremonies despite her father's efforts to keep their language intact. Few of those born and raised in Gondolin spoke fluent Quenya. Idril herself had little cause to use Quenya after Gondolin fell.

* * *

 _The Second-born?_  Earlindo watched their wounded passenger with undisguised curiosity. He had heard Finrod speak of the race of Man and their frailties. Their flame burned bright but briefly, barely a blink of an eye to the Eldar. Idril sat beside her husband, holding his hand and pointing out the white walls of Alqualonde as they approached. It was a blessing both his brothers were still seasick or they might have made some thoughtless comments about Tuor's already greying beard and rounded ear-tips. Well, mostly round. Tuor bore the scars of a warrior's life and one of his ears had been cropped at the top in a too-close encounter with a blade. The stricken princes lay some arms' length from Tuor's stretcher, moaning in their shared misery.

Little Itarille had blossomed despite the hardships she would had faced in Beleriand, including the tragic loss of her amil. Earlindo recalled seeing her as a cheerful elfling dancing barefoot on the sand by Laurelin's light. Now she was both a wife and mother. Tuor was young by Eldar standards but old by the reckoning of his race. It would be a sad time for Idril when her beloved husband finally succumbed to his mortal fate. The poor nis might even fade from her grief.

"It's too cruel a fate," Earlindo murmured as he watched his father speaking with Idril, informing her of her son's appeal to the Valar and their decision.

"What is cruel, my prince?" Uinen called from where she was leaping alongside the vessel like the dolphin whose form she had adopted.

"Itarille's husband is mortal and his life will soon burn out leaving her behind to mourn…"

"Oh my prince! Never you fret!" Uinen giggled. "Your kind heart commends you but I best leave dear Olorin to break the news." The Maia had declined to join them on their expedition in favour of a spicy pot of hot mussels on the quay.

"You fool, think you not that his bones would be bleaching on the sand by now if he had remained bound to the mortal fate?" Osse scoffed as he swam close to the vessel, causing it to rock alarmingly. Olwe shouted a warning and Earlindo hastened to steady the craft lest it capsized. The Maiar couple leapt into the air – Uinen gracefully and her spouse landing with a splash worthy of a breaching whale. The pair bade their goodbyes and swam off. They had reached the gateway to the harbour where Olorin stood waiting on the docks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mae govannen – well met (Sindarin greeting). 
> 
> Finrod is using informal Sindarin to put Earendil more at ease. He also introduced Mornel as his kinswoman but did not mention her ties to the Feanorions at this point. 
> 
> After the Ban on Quenya, Sindarin would have become the lingua franca of the Beleriand elves, even the Noldor Exiles. Earendil was a child when Gondolin fell and the refugees joined the survivors from Doriath at the Havens of Sirion. He would have been more at ease with Sindarin. Tuor was not offered a choice to be counted among the Elves or remain mortal. The Valar, or rather Eru, made the decision to have him counted among the Elves with the benefits of immortality, probably for Idril’s sake.


	3. Earendil and Elwing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornel meets Elwing and the rest of the Vingilot’s crew. Tensions rise between Earendil and his wife.

_I did not know how I could have expected things to go any different in light of my brothers’ deeds. Perhaps it was simply wishful thinking on my part._  

Mornel saw the momentary flash of anger in Earendil’s eyes when Finrod finally introduced her as Feanor’s daughter. However, he reined in his temper. Perhaps after two days of enjoying their company, he was not going to jeopardize their goodwill. The High King was reluctant to allow Earendil the freedom of exploring the city and the poor ellon was chafing with boredom. Elwing had no such qualms. 

When Olorin arrived with her, Elwing had flown into an insane rage on seeing Mornel, screaming and cursing. The ferocity of the attack had caught even Olorin by surprise. The encounter left Mornel with scratches on her cheek before Earendil managed to calm his wife down. It had hurt. Mornel had retreated from the room to treat her wounds. Later in the yard, she had received a grudgingly offered apology from a scowling Elwing. 

“You look too much like my nana’s murderer,” Elwing had tossed over her shoulder before running back indoors with an apologetic Earendil on her heels. The Valar had requested that the peredhil be brought before them in the Ring of Doom and an impatient Eonwe was waiting. 

“The Choice is to be offered to them and their sons…” Master Olorin explained. “To be counted among the Elves or Men.” 

“What of those who had gone before?” Mornel asked.  _Like Dior the Fair and his sons, slain by her brothers…_  

“That I do not know, child,” Olorin patted her shoulder. “However, there is a task we require of you. Lady Vaire has granted you access to her Halls to view the tapestries of Beleriand. Your grandmother Miriel will be your guide. Observe. Take note of the creatures of the Shadow and any arms the Exiles have used against them effectively. Now go.”

 

* * *

 _It has been a tiring week in the Halls of Lady Vaire. Too many skirmishes and battles have been waged across the Sea. At Master Olorin’s advice, I have sketched the weapons and armour of the Eldar, and forwarded them to the smiths of Formenos with notes on the weaknesses and strengths of the foes we would no doubt face soon. I only pray that we have enough materials and time to outfit our war host…_  

Mornel bade a fond farewell to her grandmother at the gate of Lady Vaire’s Halls and mounted Fearocco. Alqualonde awaited her. Finrod sent word that they would travel there so that Earendil could be reunited with his parents. Elwing had discovered to her dismay that none of her lost kindred had been re-embodied as yet.

* * *

 _It would seem that though he had chosen as his wife did the path of the Eldar, Earendil’s heart is more akin to the path of Men._ Finrod had written in his letter. _It will do Earendil’s heart good to know his parents are safe and his father now of the Eldar, for I sense tensions between him and his wife with regards to the fate of their sons..._  

“Elwing, if you had simply given.. _._ ” 

“You should have been there…” 

“You chose a jewel over our sons!” 

“You were never around for them!” There came the sound of something breaking against the wall. 

Mornel had found the house where the peredhil couple had taken up residence by the crowd of curious elves gathered outside, drawn by the commotion. It was the home of the harbourmaster and his sprawling family but large enough for Earendil and his crew. 

On entering the hall, she found the couple being restrained by Idril and Finrod lest they came to blows. Amarie was fluttering like an agitated hen between the pair. The Vanyar never condoned strife between married couples. It was unheard of for a wife to defy her husband as Elwing had done. Several elves watched the ruckus warily from the stairs. A sheepish Tuor was sitting by the fireplace, his leg in a cast. 

Mornel’s appearance drew a few hissed whispers and dark looks from the elves on the stairs. They were probably Earendil’s crew from the Hither Shores.  _Kinslayer._ Mornel’s ears picked up the whispered word. 

“Quit that, Voronwe Aranwion! You’re acting like a spoilt elfling and you know better!” Idril chided when one dark-haired elf went so far as to spit at Mornel. The sullen elf murmured an apology before retreating upstairs with his companions. 

Elwing made use of her law-mother’s lapse of attention to pull free of her grasp and storm off to the parlour. A grumbling Earendil sat down beside his father by the fireplace and bemoaned the changes in his wife. 

“She was never like this before we were wed. The Silmaril changed her. After that, all she had eyes for was that blasted gem. I was glad when the Valar took it from me…” 

“My son, could you not tell me of your sons?” Tuor asked quietly. They had sailed soon after the wedding and the grandparents never had a chance to hold their grandsons. 

“Er, they are twins, named Aeradan and Aerohir,” Earendil floundered. “They were just starting to walk when I first started sailing…” 

He had never stayed long when he returned to the Havens. His wife had grown cold, obsessed by her pretty gem. The boys would often be away from her tower, with their nurse, or Cirdan when the old shipwright visited from Balar. If he was fortunate, he would catch a glimpse of their dark heads as they slumbered after a day of play. His sons were thought slow by the tutors, perhaps it was their half-Elven blood. Earendil had struggled with his letters himself as a child under his nana’s guidance. Shipbuilding and sailing came more readily to him. He had hoped to apprentice his boys to the Shipwright when they were older. 

On board the Vingilot after their miraculous reunion, he had taken the gem from Elwing’s breast as she lay dazed and weary on the deck. Afterwards he did not know if she saw him or the gem on his brow as he comforted her. The fate of the Eldar - he owed her that at least for those long lonely nights he was at sea. Now he was not sure if she would have him without her precious gem. 

“Go to her later, son, when her temper has cooled. Speak gently with her,” Tuor urged as Finrod introduced Mornel to Idril. Idril was thrilled to discover she now had a cousin in Valinor, of Feanor’s line or not. 

“Poor grandmother was so shocked when she first met Tuor…” Idril giggled. “She kept asking Master Olorin if there had been some mistake – she expected him to lose the beard when the Valar made him elven. I told her I like Tuor’s beard as much as the rest of him… Besides, Master Mahtan has a beard too and he’s a full Elf.” 

Beneath Idril’s girlish exuberance, Mornel detected the faintest hint of weariness. The trials of her life in Beleriand would not leave her so readily. There was also the quarrel between her son and law-daughter, and the unknown fates of her grandchildren to consider.

* * *

The dinner at King Olwe’s palace was awkward to say the least. Earendil and his wife barely spoke to each other. Aunt Anaire could not stop fussing over Idril as if she was still a half-grown elfling. Tuor had declined to attend due to his injury. The healers said it would take a few more days to heal completely. Earwen made another heated appeal to her brother for the ships needed for the Host. Prince Raumeldo had refused to allow Telerin ships to be used for the war despite their father’s blessing. Many of the ship-captains were similarly inclined. Prince Earlindo and Serelinde played soothing music to defuse the tension but their efforts were for naught. 

“Politics,” Queen Falmiril shrugged. “Come walk with us in the gardens, Mornel. We will leave Raume and Earwen to sort things out.” 

 The palace gardens were beautiful by moonlight. The calm waters of the lake reflected the stars and moon above. Somewhere a cricket chirped his love-song. The nissi stopped in the pavilion. 

“Will you go with the Host, Mornel?” the queen asked. 

“Aye.” A nightingale trilled in the night. 

“Do you hope to meet with your brothers and talk them to their senses?” 

“That too.” Somewhere a frog leapt into the water with a soft plop. 

“Be careful, little one. I will speak with my stubborn son to make him see sense. We can’t really have the Host freeze crossing the Ice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon seems to suggest that the names Elros and Elrond were given to the twins after they were found near a waterfall. No mention of their original names, so I have chosen their names to be similar to those given to Elrond’s twins in the Third Age. I have made their little family a bit dysfunctional too – absent dad, distracted, indifferent mom. The twins latched onto the Feanorions as the first true family they know, enough to take on the names Elrond and Elros, which I am assuming were given to them by Maglor.


	4. The War Host

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Eldar prepare for war. Mornel sees the Silmaril for the first time.

_Elwing and Earendil have reached a truce, although they are still cool to each other. For that I am glad. Earendil’s crew has also started to warm to me. We have Idril to thank for this. Voronwe has apologized to me for his unkind actions. He is a decent ner at heart. I have seen his loyalty to his friends, especially Tuor and his son._  

“Mornel! Come join us!” Idril waved to her from a table set for lunch. Voronwe gave a grin before returning his attention to his soup. Shipbuilding was hard work even with all the Teleri and some Noldor craftsmen pitching in. Earendil’s Vingilot was far more advanced than any vessel the Teleri had built to date. It fell to Earendil and his crew to teach the Teleri how to build similar vessels. King Olwe’s people had refused to set foot on Beleriand or fight alongside the Noldor and Vanyar. However, they had agreed to build and provide the vessels to ferry the host. As mariners themselves, the Teleri found a common kinship with Earendil and his crew. 

Months had passed in a flurry. Mornel had taken to her role as her uncle’s herald with gusto. Fearocco was known for his untiring speed and it was not unusual for Mornel to spend days and even nights on end in the saddle. Messages were constantly flying to and fro the courts of the Eldar. Reports on the progress of the shipbuilding from Alqualonde or the forging of arms in Formenos, these made their way to Tirion in Mornel’s saddlebags. Riding under her uncle’s banner rather than the eight-pointed Feanorian star did have its benefits as others were more inclined to see her as her uncle’s herald instead of Feanor’s daughter. For now, she was tired, hungry, and more than happy to be welcomed at the table. 

Elwing was doling out some stew from a pot for her husband. The couple exchanged polite smiles. Idril and Tuor must have spoken to the couple and urged them to reconcile. They were still young, perhaps too young to understand what marriage required. The ties of marriage were considered inviolate for the Eldar, as the Valar taught. It was clear to Mornel that Tuor adored his wife. He was content to remain at Idril’s side for eternity. His son was of a more restless bent and Elwing more wilful than Idril was, having been pampered as the sole surviving heir of her father by her people. It must have taken a serious chat for her to agree to serve the ellyn at the table. Distributing stew and bread was not something a queen of the Sindar was expected to do.  

As Mornel took her seat, she noticed a new face among them. A dark-haired nis with a timeless wisdom shining from her eyes smiled at her. Mornel bowed in reply. She knew this was no nis but a Maia in Eldar form – Melian. 

“It will be hard for her when he leaves again,” Melian whispered. “It is best they part on good terms.” 

“So he will fight in the war?” 

“Yes, the Valar wish Earendil to lead the Host as their guide across the sea. Though he will not descend from the skies…” 

“The skies? Is he to fly then?” Mornel smiled bemusedly. 

“The Valar have blessed his vessel and will set it in the night skies. He is tasked to carry the Silmaril as a beacon of hope to all in Arda, until the world breaks.” 

“Why are you sharing this with me? Do they know?” 

“Because you asked. Leave Eonwe to inform them – my part is only to urge them to reconcile… Oh, here he comes now…” 

At the approach of Lord Manwe’s herald and Master Olorin, the elves all rose from their meal. Only Melian remained seated. She had known Eonwe for a long time and thought him overly pompous. She need not inflate his ego further. For his part, Lord Eonwe pointedly ignored her. Only Master Olorin called out a greeting and received a nod from Melian in reply. Once Eonwe had pronounced Lord Manwe’s orders, the elves were ushered to the harbour where the newly-blessed Vingilot glowed at anchor where Olwe and his court were watching the ship in awe. 

That was when Mornel saw the Silmaril for the first time. It twinkled bewitchingly in its setting on the breast of the vessel’s swan-shaped prow like a beacon. Her heart skipped a beat. Earendil scowled and folded his arms across his chest. He might not like having to carry the gem on board his ship but he would obey the will of the Valar. Elwing gave a gasp and seemed to sway on her feet slightly before her husband steadied her. 

 _Too beautiful to be contained within a single gem_ … Mornel closed her eyes against the brightness. She became aware of many pairs of eyes resting on her. Perhaps the other elves were waiting to see if the daughter of Feanor would be driven mad by the Silmaril as her father and brothers were said to have been. The shock of the realization made her step back involuntarily, and off the edge of the pier. 

“Careful now!” Strong hands grabbed her before she fell into the water and she was back on solid stone. She opened her eyes to find a knot of worried elves around her, including Idril and Voronwe. It was Voronwe who had yanked her back to safety. 

“Are you well?” Idril asked and felt her brow. Mornel nodded. 

“The Tree-light is a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?” Olorin said. 

“It’s better if my Atto had broken the jewels when the Valar asked. Such beauty and power is too much to be possessed by a few, or even contained thus…” Mornel replied. “Methinks the spell it unknowingly casts upon its bearer may not be a good thing…” 

“Peace, child. It is not yet time for the Silmaril to be broken and the Light freed.” 

“What of Earendil and his crew?” _Would the Silmaril become an obsession like it did for Elwing?_  

“The Valar have blessed the vessel which will bear it and those who will sail her. The Silmaril you see is contained in a cage of Lord Aule’s devising – so that it would not enchant its bearers while still shining as a symbol of hope to all…” Olorin reassured her. “Now, how are the Noldor armourers and swordsmiths faring?” 

“The forges have been working in shifts to produce the arms and armour required to equip the Noldor and Vanyar armies…” Mornel reported. “We expect to provide each soldier with a full set of armour, shields, and swords…” 

“The Vanyar have refused to turn in their spears for swords, so I hear…” Olorin mused. The Vanyar were notoriously stubborn in their ways when it came to tradition. Ingwion had done his best to encourage his troops to improve their weapons and training. Some of the Vanyar had switched their spears for javelins but swords were still faced with fierce resistance. Mornel had presented Ingwion with a sword forged by the best Noldor swordsmith in Formenos but the Crown Prince of the Vanyar had declined in favour of a lance and javelin. 

“We will fit them out with shields then… strong enough to protect them, but light enough to bear,” Mornel replied. Formenos, the second city of Noldor smiths, would do what they could to aid the Host.

* * *

Before the Host was due to leave for Beleriand, each of the royal courts of the Eldar held special ceremonies and prayers to Eru Iluvatar and the Valar for victory. On Taniquetil, Lord Manwe and his wife Varda observed the leave-takings going on from the highest noble house to the lowest soldier’s hut. Sons bade farewell to mothers, fathers kissed their elflings. Nissi left behind sought solace in prayers. 

In Tirion, King Arafinwe formally named his son Finrod as his regent during his absence before the entire court. In Valmar, Prince Ingwion sought the blessings of his parents after a week of prayer and fasting. He would bid his wife a proper farewell in the privacy of their bedchambers before leaving Valmar. In Alqualonde, King Olwe and his queen oversaw the official launching of the newly-built armada while prayers were given to the Valar Lord Ulmo for his protection. Princes Eareldo and Raumeldo had both pleaded to be allowed to lead the armada to no avail. Their elder sister Earwen would accompany her father on this hazardous mission. 

In Formenos, Mornel shook her head at the axe stuck in the centre of the council table. That was one way of stopping a brawl, but one she would prefer Tatie not resort to. In addition to soldiers, the Host needed smiths and armourers, healers and scribes. Many of the smiths of Formenos had been loath to part with their best assistants. At the previous summer-meeting, the Nandor and Avari tribes had stated their decision not to spare their young born in Aman for the Host. It was a pity for the Nandor and Avari were skilled trackers and archers. Mornel was leaving her city in the capable hands of her grandfather Mahtan and right-hand elf, Tatie. Lady Eldalote promised to drop by each spring to help with the sowing and stay until the harvest. As a student of Lady Yavanna, she was respected for her knowledge of crops. The year’s crops had already been sown that week. Lady Eldalote would be coming soon to oversee the growing season. However, there was no time to waste. Mornel had to escort the last batch of volunteers to Alqualonde before the ships sailed.

* * *

The day of their departure dawned bright. The blessings of the Valar were upon them. The assembled Vanyar and Noldor forces boarded the waiting vessels. More vessels were laden with horses and provisions. Spirits were high among the younger soldiers. This was an adventure for them. Their older colleagues were more subdued, especially those who had made the Great Journey so many ages past. They knew the dangers which awaited them on the far shore. Earendil kissed his wife goodbye before taking to his ship with his crew. 

To gasps of awe from the spectators, the Vingilot rose from the water, shimmering white in the sunlight. It rose until it joined the circling squadron of Great Eagles above. Then the Valar made their appearances. Lord Ulmo rose from the sea and blew his conch, a signal to sail forth. The call was answered by Lord Orome ‘s hunting horn from the deck of the ship Arafinwe was on. Mornel marvelled at the magnificence of the Lord of the Hunt. There was no need for the Valar to take on the likeness of the Children to mingle among them. However, their visible presence was a comfort to many. More Maiar mingled, both visibly and otherwise, with the Host or swimming through the waves. Mornel thought she glimpsed Master Aiwendil on Ingwion’s ship but she was not sure. 

Mornel waved farewell to her friends on the pier before joining the ship’s captain and her long-time friend Surialdo at the helm. Fearocco had been stabled in the hold with his sire Nahar. Father and son were restless, unused to being confined on a ship. The situation was worsened by the pitching of the ship whenever Osse or one of the more playful water-Maiar came too close. Both their masters spent much of their time during the journey beside their steeds to calm them. Lord Orome tried to ignore her for most part. Mornel shyly refrained from speaking to him. It would not be proper to speak so casually to a Vala. For days they shared the hold in uneasy companionship before Lord Orome finally broke the silence. 

“Do you seriously expect your remaining brothers to listen?” 

“I can only try…” 

“Iluvatar’s blessings be with you then…” Lord Orome shrugged. He did not wish to admit it but Mornel had done a great job taking care of her horse, much like how her brother had raised Huan since he was a puppy. Of course, that was before the Oath changed Tyelkormo. Huan had loyally stood with his master until he fell too far. Huan would have been willing to lay down his life for his master back then, before his kidnap of Luthien to force a marriage with her. The Valar did not look kindly on such an act, neither did Huan. Orome’s best protégé had disappointed him. 

 _Fearocco, would you lay down your life for your mistress?_ Orome asked the horse when a shout from the deck drew Mornel away. 

Fearocco started and pawed at the straw of his stall. _Need you ask?_ He snorted insolently and received a nip on the ear from his sire as punishment. 

A Great Eagle was skimming the surface of the water near the ship as it ploughed ahead. On its back was an elf signalling to Arafinwe. Mornel recognized the rider as Voronwe. Earendil had chosen him to act as messenger when he needed to convey messages between him and the fleet more complex than the Eagles could relay with their limited vocabulary. 

“Beleriand…” Voronwe pointed out a dark shadow in the misty distance. “It would be best if we reach the Isle of Balar before nightfall.” _Night in Beleriand was fraught with danger,_ he need not add. “There is a cove on the west of the isle but it is too small to contain the entire fleet. The southern shore is more sheltered from the wind but it will be a hard trek along the shore. We must stay close… It is too easy to mistake the main shore with the isle and the current might cause the ships to drift.” 

The Eagle and its rider then wheeled over to Olwe’s and Ingwion’s vessels to relay both the news and Earendil’s advice. Once a course of action was decided, the generals would send out signal-elves to convey their orders to the rest of the fleet. Mornel marvelled at the complex system of coloured flags and banners which Captain Surialdo had used when Arafinwe found Ingwion’s twins had stowed away on board his ship by mingling with the scribes and smiths. Ingwion had expected his daughters to be safely studying in Lorien. The nissi meant no harm and they would need healers in the coming days.

* * *

_We expect to reach Beleriand and make landfall by tomorrow. The weather has turned nasty as we near the Hither Shores and it is not solely of Lord Osse’s mischief. There is a foul stench of ashes in the wind that has turned against us. I fear we will be delayed. I am afraid that the coming days will cost us dear. Isilmire and Lomire have promised Uncle Ara they would stay away from any fighting as they are unschooled in the arts of war. Ingwion hopes to get them to a place of safety soon, so do I. Lord Orome has taken his steed and leaped over to Ingwion’s vessel. Came close to tipping us over entirely. Lord Manwe wanted to convene a meeting of the Valar there. I hope Ingwion’s ship is sturdy enough._

Mornel put down her quill and glanced over to where the sisters were giggling as they huddled together for warmth against the biting chill. Some of the elves had been seasick and needed their skills. Now the pair was turning in for the night. The healer-elves would be kept well behind their lines since most warriors had been given some training in basic first-aid. Mornel had some of the best Avari healers in Formenos teach the more open-minded Noldor soldiers about antidotes to poisons in battle wounds. Their enemy was not adverse to using poisons on their weapons. The Vanyar had been reluctant to consider the possibility of needing such skills as they considered the use of poisons in battle immoral. It seemed to escape their comprehension that Morgoth never played by the rules of war set down by Lord Tulkas. 

High above the fleet, the Silmaril twinkled through the heavy clouds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mornel and the rest of the armada will arrive in Beleriand soon but Morgoth’s influence is definitely affecting the weather in Beleriand.


	5. First Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Host of the Valar arrive in Beleriand and Mornel has her first taste of battle.

“The current is against us,” Surialdo murmured. “The fog is too thick to risk a landing on the isle. Too rocky. Lady Uinen recommends the Mouths of Sirion where the shore is sandier and beach more sheltered…” The fog made her friend uneasy. The change in the weather had thrown their plans into disarray. The Silmaril twinkled above, a tiny pinprick of light through the clouds. The Eagles and Vingilot had risen above the choking clouds of ash and dust which billowed from the east. The fog muffled all sound. Occasionally, they would hear a whistle from another ship in the armada as a sailor tried to call out to his mates. Only the Maiar of Ulmo braved the waves, crossing from ship to ship, passing messages. 

“Where is that moron?” Surialdo complained as he peered into the fog. “Thought he would be guiding us…” 

Mornel stifled a laugh. Surialdo had taken a dislike to Voronwe after he learnt how he had treated Mornel in the early days. Voronwe and the rest of the Vingilot’s crew warmed up to Mornel after she attended to Voronwe’s injuries after a shipyard prank which backfired on him. Voronwe reasoned that if she were Curufinwe Feanaro reborn, as some of the crew claimed, she would not be bandaging his wounds. Prince Feanaro was not one to tolerate fools. 

Arafinwe paced the deck. They had lost sight of the other ships hours ago. Now he could not hear any whistles or creaking of ropes and sails from them. Mornel went over to him with his cloak. The sun was setting and the cold of night was descending fast. They could hear the quiet washing of the waves on an unseen shore. A hush had fallen over the crew. Surialdo had his First Mate sounding the depth beneath their hull. There were no Maiar around them now.   

The sailor at the prow sounded the depth, calling out his measurements to Surialdo. More sailors cautiously rowed at the oars. Surialdo had ordered the sails to be lowered earlier. 

“Twenty… Eighteen… Fifteen…” There was a sudden gasp of surprise as the elf was cut off mid-count. He slumped over the side and Mornel hurried over to save him from falling over into the water. An evil-looking arrow stuck out of the hapless sailor’s neck. More arrows flew out of the fog as the shoreline burst out of the fog bank. Surialdo cussed aloud as he turned the helm, hoping to snatch his vessel away from danger. Instead, they felt the jarring grind of the hull against a hidden rock. Alarmed cries from below told them the hull had been breached. Desperate to keep the ship afloat, Surialdo had no choice but to beach her on shore despite the danger.   

Snarling orcs and wargs burst out of the now dispersing fog. They were under attack. Mornel dragged the still-gasping sailor to safety and handed him to the healers huddled in the hold with water up to their knees. She did not know if they would be able to save his life. All over the ship, the swarming orcs were being driven back by the brave efforts of the soldiers and sailors. 

“Protect the Noldoran!” A warning cry rang out. Arafinwe had been cut off by the enemy and was perilously close to being overwhelmed. Mornel gave a shrill whistle and Fearocco leaped out of the hold, bursting through a hatch just behind the startled orcs. With a mighty kick of his hind legs, the orcs were sent flying overboard. Using her sword, Mornel cut a path through their foes like a deadly whirlwind. Arafinwe wondered if this was how his brother Feanaro would have looked at the height of battle. 

The blare of a horn sounded above the din of battle. The now-reduced enemy decided discretion was the better part of valour. An orc in a hideous helm screamed out a guttural command and lunged at Mornel with his spear. Mornel retaliated by smashing the spear aside with her sword before driving the blade into the orc’s guts to the hilt and swinging it upwards. Seeing their leader’s demise, the rest of the orcs fled for the safety of the forest. The horn sounded again and they heard horses approaching. 

It was a troop of a dozen or so armed elves on horseback. All were armoured and some bore lit torches. The elves of Beleriand had come to their aid. Arafinwe gave orders for the wounded to be treated and the uninjured to disembark so as to greet the newcomers. As he stepped off the boat, a wounded warg lifted its ugly head from the sand where it had been lying and tried to sink its fangs into the Noldoran’s leg. Arafinwe was quicker. With a disgruntled sound, he drove his still unsheathed and bloody sword into the beast’s head. This was the first battle he had truly participated in and it had left him reeling. The stench of blood flooded his nose as did the sight of so many dead and wounded. He swayed uncertainly, prompting Mornel to rush forward to support him. 

The leading rider of the troop dismounted hurriedly and ran to the Noldoran. The hair which flew behind her helm was like a silver and gold banner. The warrior hugged the startled Noldoran heedless of the blood and gore he was covered in. 

“Atto…” 

“A-Artanis?” Arafinwe gasped as he gingerly lifted his free hand to touch the back of his daughter’s helmeted head. Artanis was clad as a seasoned warrior would be in somewhat tarnished armour which had seen its fair share of battle. Laughing, Artanis pulled away from her father so that she could lift her helm. His little Artanis had grown up and her eyes were like his son’s, tinged with sorrow and weariness. His little princess was now a hardened warrior.  

“I am Galadriel now, atto…” she turned and called out to one of her companions. The tall ellon dismounted and lifted his helm. 

“Meet Celeborn, my husband…” Galadriel took his spouse’s hand in hers and urged him forward. 

“Well-met, my son…” Arafinwe clapped his hand on Celeborn’s shoulder. Celeborn started at being greeted in Sindarin by his law-father. Gingerly at first, the remaining elves approached each other. Most of the riders did not understand Quenya and few of the Noldor host newly arrived were fluent in Sindarin despite Finrod’s best efforts at teaching the troops the Elvish lingua franca of the Hither Shores. Mornel’s looks drew attention immediately. 

“Kinslayer… Curufin…” the whispers floated about. Mornel shied behind Fearocco’s bulk, wishing she would simply disappear into the shadows, until Arafinwe noticed the hostility directed at his blameless niece. He beckoned Mornel to him and hugged her, ignoring the puzzled look on his daughter’s face. 

“Here stands our brother-daughter and herald, Mornel Feanariel, who has repudiated the misdeeds of her kinsmen and sworn her loyalty to us,” the Noldoran announced in Sindarin. A hesitant clapping sounded from somewhere in the ranks of the riders. 

“Since when did Uncle Feanor have a daughter?” Galadriel demanded. As far as she knew, it was Irisse and her who had to put up with the tiresome lessons on deportment and etiquette under Aunt Anaire. The Feanorions were a wild lot but had her uncle sired a daughter, she would most likely have been sent to Tirion for a courtly education as his sons were. 

“Mornel was begotten the last night my brother spent with his wife and born a year afterwards. You always wanted another girl-cousin or a sister, didn’t you?” Arafinwe teased his daughter. “I’ve missed you so much,” he let his kingly dignity slip as he kissed her on the brow like an indulgent father. He hoisted her up in his arms as if she were a child and spun her about despite her armour. 

“Atto!” Galadriel protested laughingly when he finally set her back on her feet. 

“Celebrimbor! Come and greet your aunt,” she called out. A dark-haired, broad-shouldered ellon shyly stepped forward from the milling throng of dismounted elves. His eyes were grey and lacked the light of the Trees, just like Mornel’s. 

“Curufinwe and his wife begot him during the long siege…” Galadriel explained. “He has his father’s skill as a smith but is a far better elf than his sire.” Celebrimbor blushed fiercely at Galadriel’s praise. 

Celeborn coughed. “Forgive me but methinks we better return to the safety of the Haven. Foul beasts are still afoot and the rest of the Host will be wondering where the Noldoran and his crew are.” 

Litters were made from driftwood, canvas, and rope for those wounded unable to walk. Five of Mornel’s shipmates had perished, including the hapless sailor who had been shot first. These unfortunates they laid to rest on a funeral pyre of driftwood, Teleri, Noldor, or Vanyar alike. Brief prayers were offered to the Vala Namo, that their stay in his Halls would be brief. The fallen orcs were cast into a hastily dug pit and buried in the sand. The Teleri had voiced their desire to spend as little time as possible on the shore and the Noldoran could not dissuade them otherwise. A party of sailors and soldiers were left with the stricken ship to assist Surialdo in rendering it seaworthy once more so that they might sail to rejoin the armada anchored some miles away at the Mouths of Sirion. The Noldoran’s vessel had drifted off course in the fog and had caused a search party to be sent forth from the settlement when the alarm was raised.

* * *

It was a somewhat bedraggled party which trotted or walked into the Havens at dawn. Fearocco’s magnificence drew many admiring looks from the inhabitants. The similarity to Lord Orome’s Nahar did not go unnoticed. The Lord of the Hunt had paused long enough to receive the admiration of the elves before galloping inland to explore the woods he had left behind so long ago. 

The settlement was hastily built over the past few years after the horrors of the Third Kinslaying. Some of the ruined buildings still bore the scars of fire. Isilmire and Lomire did their duties alongside the healers, unflinchingly tending to ghastly wounds and comforting those in suffering from the poison which had tipped some of the orc-arrows. The Sindar healers had concocted several antidotes to common orc poisons which proved of great use to the Valinorean healer elves. Earendil and Elwing had lived here with their twins. Celebrimbor grimly pointed out the ruined tower where the small family had made their home during happier times. 

“Ara!” Earwen ran forward to embrace her husband. She had earlier experienced a happy reunion with her little Nerwen. Ingwion clapped his cousin on the shoulder with a smile. He then went to check on his daughters where they were busy in the healing wards. 

Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn were the elected leaders of this settlement of mixed Noldor and Sindar elves. They sent a pigeon to Lord Cirdan on the Isle of Balar where he lived with his people and Gil-galad, the young High King of the Noldor in Beleriand. Somewhere inland in the depths of Beleriand, the remaining Feanorions dwelled in their fortress on Amon Ereb. Some claimed that they had carried off Earendil’s young sons and held them as hostages there. 

Galadriel tore off her breastplate with her husband’s aid and called for warm baths and meals for her father and his entourage. Mornel could not help staring at how imposing a figure her cousin cut even when stripped of her armour. This was Uncle Ara’s little princess. Of course it had been more than five centuries since he last saw her, but Mornel had always pictured her as seen through her uncle’s eyes – a young nis on the cusp of adulthood. Now she was undeniably a grown nis and leader, perhaps even a mother. Mornel darted out of the tent when her uncle and aunt entered the tent to allow them to speak with their daughter in private. 

“Careful – you look too much like him…” Celebrimbor said harshly as Mornel almost collided into him on her way out. “My adar was not well-liked. Neither was my grandfather.” He leaned against the tent post with arms crossed as if waiting for a reply. 

“I know.” Mornel did not know what to make of her nephew. 

“All he could think of was that Oath and getting grandfather’s silmarilli back,” Celebrimbor added. “Are you trying to get them back too?” 

“Methinks they are best broken and the light of the Trees freed,” Mornel replied honestly. 

“I think my father and uncles will be scandalized… ” Celebrimbor snorted. “Welcome to Sirion, Aunt,” he graced her with an impish grin. Nodding to her, he ambled onwards towards a welcoming-looking forge where a cheerful fire glowed. Mornel closed her eyes. _A bath. She needed a good bath._ Then perhaps she could drop by her nephew’s forge to have the dints knocked out of her sword.    

_I met two members of my family today. Galadriel is as magnificent as any warrior queen. I will not be surprise if she is destined for greater things than just being a princess. It is to my surprise that the couple are childless despite the centuries of their union. I had imagined her as a mother to an elfling of her own, perhaps a little elleth. As for Celebrimbor, I do not know what to make of him. I understand he is as skilled as my atto and brother Curufinwe were when they lived. I have seen his work at his forge and can attest he has no equal in Formenos. Yet I fear this brilliance might turn on my nephew someday…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two new members in the Finwean family tree for Mornel to meet and get to know. Once more Mornel’s foresight kicks in.


	6. High King Gil-galad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornel and the Host of the Valar find their interactions with the elves of Beleriand far from smooth sailing. Tensions and emotions run high between the elves of Beleriand and the elves of the Host.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be taking my writing slower now due to some personal and family matters I need to attend to.

Mornel’s presence stirred the wary curiosity of many of the inhabitants of the Haven. For the sake of her cousin, Lady Galadriel, an uneasy truce hung over the settlement. Still, Mornel’s sharp ears could not avoid hearing the whispers which dogged her steps and the wary looks cast her way. She was not trusted by these elves. Ingwion, Arafinwe, and Olwe took stock of the damage suffered by the armada in the confusion of the fog. The Noldoran’s ship had suffered the worst damage after going off course. Several other ships had been beached at the Mouths of Sirion. Hulls had to be caulked anew and breaches mended. 

The fog had lifted but the sea was still a trifle choppy, possibly as a result of Ulmo’s Maiar frolicking offshore. They could espy the Isle of Balar where Lord Cirdan’s people clung stubbornly to their rock, the last force of Elvish power in Beleriand capable of standing up to Morgoth. 

“We were a diminished people after Gondolin fell,” Legolas of Gondolin explained. He had been one of the few surviving warriors to escape the city. The settlement at Sirion was weak and had escaped the attention of Morgoth for the most part, but it did not spare them from the Feanorions. He had returned from a patrol of the perimeter of the settlement. Their defences were holding for now. The addition of Lord Celeborn’s Silvan archers and scouts were invaluable against the increasing incursions by Morgoth’s forces. Now with the Valar’s strength behind them, the elves might yet prevail. 

Mornel nodded. She had heard from Lord Galdor, the last of the surviving Lords of Gondolin, of that dreadful day when her brothers descended on the settlement. Galdor had survived the Kinslaying but his comrade Elgamoth had fallen in protecting the sons of Earendil. 

“Is he indeed above?” Lord Galdor had queried as the Vingilot twinkled overhead. Voronwe had got leave from the Valar to set foot on Beleriand as Earendil’s messenger, but they refused to budge where Earendil was concerned. The survivors from Gondolin were anxious for news of their princess Idril and her son. Those few inhabitants formerly of Doriath were curious as to the fate of their queen but they were not going to ask news from the Noldor. Instead they lurked outside Galdor’s tent as Mornel related the arrival of the Vingilot in Aman. She made sure they heard every word. Galdor admonished her saying that even if he had lost an ear in battle he was definitely not deaf. His words were greeted by chuckles outside the tent but the eavesdroppers had fled by the time Galdor peered out. 

Celebrimbor’s forge fire was constantly lit and the air rang with the sound of his hammer. The arrival of his aunt had disturbed him considerably. The mood was tense. Arafinwe and his daughter exchanged angry words when he tried to dissuade her from joining the patrols. There were too many elves in too small a space. Some unfortunates pitched their tents too near the shore and were awoken when the tide came in. To ease the pressures on the Haven, the Teleri returned to their ships despite the rough seas, Earwen among them. _What was there to fear with Lord Ulmo watching over them?_ The Vanyar and Noldor were poor sailors and could not be persuaded to join them.

 On the fifth day of their arrival, Voronwe alit in Sirion with news from Balar. A meeting was to be held with Lord Cirdan and the High King of the Noldor Gil-galad. The Valar had already spoken with Lord Cirdan and wished that the elven leaders meet. He sought out Mornel after delivering his message. 

“Remember the flour?” Mornel grinned as they observed some elves unloading sacks of flour for making lembas. This was the last of the flour left in the settlement, a sign of how grim things were becoming even with the extra provisions from the armada. As orcs encroached on the outlying Nandor villages, more refugees were fleeing to Sirion and the banner of Lord Celeborn and his lady-wife. Others fled towards the Feanorion stronghold of Amon Ereb. 

“You will not let me forget, will you?” Voronwe shook his head. It had seemed a harmless prank back then – dropping a sack of flour on Mornel. However, his mates had misheard the amount of flour he asked for and the weight of the sack had yanked him off his feet when he tried to hoist it alone. He gashed open his brow on the pulley and Mornel had to stitch the wound close.   

“There are rumours that Earendil’s sons still live - as wards of my brothers,” Mornel informed Voronwe. Voronwe choked on his wine. 

“My lord Earendil will not be pleased…” 

“At least they are alive – the Nandor give us no indication of any ill-treatment…” Mornel added. There were also worrying rumours about the deteriorating state of her brothers’ sanity which she would not share with Voronwe just yet. Many would prefer the boys be put into the care of Lord Cirdan instead of living with known Kinslayers. 

* * *

 

Early the next morning, a vessel ferried the leaders of the Noldor, Vanyar, and Teleri forces to Balar for the war council. Lord Celeborn remained in Sirion but his wife travelled with her parents. Mornel was by her uncle’s side as his herald. The seas were calm and the journey uneventful. Their entourage was greeted at the Balar quayside by an apologetic Lord Cirdan. Gil-galad was nowhere in sight – the young king of the Noldor had fled his own palace that morning without a word to his attendants. Lady Galadriel shook her head in disapproval. Gil-galad was young to be a king. Cirdan had allowed his young charge far too much freedom in his childhood. Now Ereinion chafed at the protocol and trappings of his exalted status. 

 _You would not find yourselves welcome…_ Celebrimbor had warned when he presented her with a jewelled dirk Earwen had commissioned from him as a gift for her distant uncle Cirdan. 

Mornel had expected a cold reception in light of her kinsmen’s deeds under the malignant influences of their ill-thought Oath. However, the hostility they were greeted with by the elves of Balar was shocking even to her. The elves of Sirion were not as openly hostile as these. Arafinwe would later learn that many of these elves were Sindar who had not only lost kin in Doriath but later at the Mouths of Sirion. Rumours of Elwing’s sons being raised as princes by the Feanorions were met with suspicion. Dark whispers reminded everyone of the fate of Elwing’s ill-fated brothers. There were also Noldor survivors of the Grinding Ice who blamed the House of Feanor for their suffering and the loss of loved ones. Others were from Nargothrond and had witnessed her brothers’ attempted coup there. These elves treated her uncle with the respect due a king but they were wary of her presence. 

Mornel liked Cirdan. He reminded her of her grandfather Mahtan. The wisdom of the Ages shone in his smiling eyes. His hair was silver-white, as was his beard. He bore a striking resemblance to his kinsman Olwe in how readily he mingled with the common elves. He was surprised to learn that he had a child of Feanor in his midst but he welcomed Mornel with the same warmth he did her uncle. _“Whatever the deeds of your kin, the blame lies not with you_ ,” he had said to her as he embraced her in greeting. 

Mornel was to share her rooms with her cousin Galadriel during their sojourn on Balar. Their guest quarters were better than the tents at the Mouths of Sirion but still a far cry from the comforts of Tirion. The simple but elegant furnishings reminded Mornel of her chambers in Formenos. The tapestries which decorated the walls were a pale shadow of Miriel’s marvels. Gulls swooped and screamed outside the tall narrow window of her chamber. The waves crashed at the foot of the cliffs on which Balar’s citadel clung to. Like Formenos, the building was styled as a fortress from which to hold out against Morgoth’s armies. A steep narrow path wound up from the quayside, interweaving between the outbuildings and houses of the isle’s inhabitants.  There were strategic gates and enclosures in which an invading army might be trapped and decimated. Cirdan had not protected his people as long as he did without learning a trick or two in military strategy. 

“It’s a pity Ereinion chose this time to be difficult…” Galadriel pouted she brushed her silvery-gold hair in preparation for the banquet. Her unusual hair was her crowning glory. Freed of any headgear, it fell to her knees in soft waves. “But I suppose you’d understand… having to grow up without parents…” 

“I had my amme… and uncle…” Mornel squirmed. The words hit a sore spot. Galadriel did not seem to notice and continued. 

“They sent him to Cirdan when he was only an elfling, shortly after the Battle of the Sudden Flame...” 

“What of his naneth?” There was a sudden chill in the air. 

“She fell then,” Galadriel grudgingly replied with a shrug. “Speak not to Ereinion of her. Now, are you going to Cirdan’s table with your hair in that nest of rats’ tails? Let me fix it for you…” Galadriel grabbed a hairbrush from the table. If she had to share quarters with Mornel, there was no reason not to be civil. Lord Cirdan has organised a banquet for Ingwion and Finarfin, as Arafinwe was known in Beleriand.

* * *

 

They met the High King of the Noldor in Beleriand at the table. Gil-galad was terribly young, barely of age for an elf. He was seated next to Cirdan and nodded politely to the guests as they arrived. The Valar and various Maiar were also in attendance. Lord Orome was surrounded by a knot of Sindar nobles. Lord Eonwe was in conversation with Lord Tulkas. Lord Manwe and Lord Ulmo were absent. 

With a smile on her face, Galadriel drifted from elf to elf, chatting and steering them towards one another. More often than not, her target found himself or herself agreeing with her as if entranced. Mornel tried to stifle a stab of envy. Her cousin was beautiful and a skilful politician. Courtly company often made Mornel uncomfortable. Social events were never Mornel’s scene. When Galadriel was satisfied she had made all the necessary introductions, she took her seat beside her father. It was then that Mornel realised that it would mean she had to sit between Galadriel and a sour-faced Sindar lordling. The lordling looked set to make Mornel’s evening as miserable as socially possible. 

Noticing her discomfort, Gil-galad excused himself from his place beside Cirdan and coldly requested the lordling vacate his seat. The lordling grumbled beneath his breath but ceded the chair to the young king. 

“It must be difficult having a father like Feanor…” Gil-galad shrugged as he accepted a goblet of chilled wine from a servant. “Everyone will be expecting you to live up to his brilliance, or madness…” Mornel caught the tinge of bitterness in the younger elf’s tone. 

“I am my own elf. I do not have to live up to my father’s standards…” Mornel retorted. “And neither need you live up to your grandfather and father…” 

“So you have already heard of how bravely my grandfather and father died valiantly on the battlefield…” Gil-galad chuckled and gulped down his wine. “Cirdan thinks me too young to lead on the battlefield, apparently so does dear Uncle Finarfin...” There was nothing Mornel could say to that. Gil-galad was young still. Perhaps with time he would be a seasoned warrior but now he reminded Mornel of an over-eager puppy. There was always one hound pup in each litter where bravery outshone good sense and ended up being chased by a boar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Silmarillion does not give the date of Gil-galad’s birth, I imagined him as being very young, possibly underage when the title of High King passed from his father Fingon to Turgon.


	7. The Twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond and Elros face the prospect of being sent away from all they know at Amon Ereb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a change of scenery, we are going to Amon Ereb.

_Amon Ereb_  

“Ada… Ada Maglor…”  

Maglor looked up from his latest composition. Two gangly figures stood in the doorway. Their limbs were long and clottish. Two pairs of grey eyes peered fearfully out of two pale faces framed by dark hair. He made a mental note to seek out the seamstress once more as their nightshirts were far too short. The twins had grown like weeds in the recent months. Now they were far taller than elflings their age should be. Perhaps their Mannish blood was showing through.  

“It is him again…” Elros whispered hoarsely. “We heard him cry out…” Maglor understood. The bruise on Elros’ cheek was fading. Maedhros had struck his student during a training session three days ago over some small misstep. Maglor had been expecting this since then. Maedhros had never raised a hand against the twins until now. 

“Go to bed. I will see to him.” With hesitant nods, the twins silently slipped off back to the chamber they shared. Maglor put aside his parchment and ink. It would be a long night. The light of the Silmaril shone down on them, a mocking reminder of the Silmaril which had slipped their grasp. When that new star first appeared in the night sky, his brother was the first to recognize it for what it was. It had driven him into a fit of insanity which greatly alarmed their charges. When Maglor tried to calm him, Maedhros had lashed out like a cornered animal. He had heaved the dinner table over as Maglor clutched the twins close. He had ranted and raved like a madman until he collapsed from the exhaustion of his frenzy. Afterwards he had been most apologetic about it.  

Maglor remembered the broken wreck of his brother when Fingon allowed him into that healing tent on the shores of Lake Mithrim so long ago. The horrors Angband inflicted on his big brother had scarred him both hroa and fea. He had no inch of skin left unmarked on his body. Scars crisscrossed each other in a horrid tapestry of his sufferings. Maglor had blamed himself for leaving him there although logic argued that Morgoth was not one to honour his promises. The loss of Maedhros’ right hand – his sword hand – had been the least of his hurts. He had whimpered fearfully at Maglor’s approach, clinging to his valiant rescuer for comfort. Afterwards as he regained his strength, the wild mood swings came. The healers prescribed herbal teas and powders to ease him into sleep so that he might find rest despite the nightmares.  

The physical wounds faded to scars. The hroa regained its strength despite the loss of his hand and the awkward twist in his shoulder and spine caused by the years he was hung off that accursed cliff still plagued him with pain. Even now Maglor had to lace his brother into a back brace every morning. More alarming were the moods of wrath and moroseness which came and went long after most of the physical hurts healed. The nightmares were of concern too. They said those captured by Morgoth’s fiends were never really free even if they were rescued or escaped Angband. Maedhros had feared that when he handed the crown to their uncle. Celegorm would claim afterwards it was Fingon who put him up to it, whispering the idea into his ear as they shared their bed. Celegorm was wrong. That was Maedhros’ idea alone as he feared for his own sanity.  

Maglor never really understood how important Fingon’s presence was to his brother. Even after Maedhros had seemingly recovered, Fingon had made constant rides to Himring to be with him despite the protests of his father and people. The pair had always been close but the rescue had drawn them even closer. Only after Fingon’s death did Maglor appreciate how much a pillar of strength Fingon had been for his poor brother.  

After Fingon became High King and the Feanorions took up residence in Amon Ereb, Maglor had noticed the small cracks in his brother’s façade. Fingon’s death utterly devastated Maedhros. He had shut himself up in this room for two weeks refusing all food until Caranthir kicked in the door. Curufin and Celegorm had played on Maedhros’ weakness, urging him to attack Doriath. It was to cost them all dear. The unknown fate of Dior’s twin sons was another millstone about Maedhros’ neck. In a blind rage, he had hacked to death the elves who abandoned the twins before Maglor could stop him. The rage was soon followed by a period of deep self-loathing, a pattern Maglor had grown used to.  

Elrond and Elros were a blessing into their blighted lives. They both delighted in teaching the pair their letters. The boys had been plagued by nightmares at first and the Feanorions had sat up with them like concerned nursemaids. Despite themselves, they truly cared for the children. Maglor had naively believed Elwing’s twins would help his brother heal but the fits of rage and melancholia were back now, and growing in frequency and intensity. Twice this week young Elrond had helped to prepare a calming tea for Maedhros. Elrond’s growing interest and aptitude in herb-lore had not gone unremarked on by the healers. Elros was a little warrior and adventurer, forever clamouring to be allowed on the patrols with the warriors. Sometimes he would imagine the boys growing up under their care – Elrond as a loremaster, bard, or healer while Elros would be a mighty warrior, explorer, and leader… but now… 

His brother was cowering under the bedclothes, sobbing and keening like a lost child. With a resigned sigh, Maglor approached the bed cautiously. _Blood._  There was blood on the floor and on the bedclothes. The porcelain ewer lay shattered on the floor. When he was not greeted by more screams or a pillow to the face, Maglor sat down on the mattress and removed his shoes before crawling under the bedclothes.  

“F-Finno, sorry… miss you so…” Maedhros whimpered. “Here… to take me with you… to Mandos?”  

“Hush, it’s me - Kano… you are safe now…” Maglor pulled his unresisting brother into his arms.  _Was he always so gaunt?_  Maedhros had slashed open his thigh and was still clutching the shard in his bleeding hand. 

“Not safe… never… can’t… never free…” A heart-wrenching sob tore at Maglor’s heart.  

“Look, you are bleeding. Let me fetch some bandages and…” Maglor tried to leave but a bleeding hand clamped down claw-like on his wrist.  

“No, please… don’t leave me… Not you too…” Maedhros pleaded with his eyes shining with tears of desperation. Reluctantly, Maglor relented and joined his brother on the bloodied sheets. He applied pressure onto the wounds with his hands to staunch the bleeding. Whimpering incoherently, Maedhros rested against his brother’s chest. 

“Oh, Nelyo, what did they do to you?” Maglor breathed into his brother’s ear as the blood loss finally caused Maedhros to lose consciousness. Gingerly so as not to wake him, Maglor left his brother to fetch warm water and bandages. He took the discarded shard and flung it as far as he could out of the window. The sheets would have to wait. Whatever Maedhros suffered in Angband, he never shared with his brothers. He did share them with Fingon though. In Himring, Maglor once found Fingon at the door of Maedhros’ chamber early one morning, dark circles showing under his eyes from having spent the night up. Fingon had shot him the most withering glare.  

 _“Why did you leave him to suffer Angband?”_   

Guilt gnawing at his fea, Maglor did not notice the pair watching him from the shadows. 

* * *

“Think they will really send us away?” Elros whispered as they curled up under their coverlet. They had always slept together as far back as they could remember. The nightmares of fire and blood came less frequently now.  

“I dunno,” Elrond replied.  _We should hate them – for killing nana, burning Sirion – but we can’t…_  Elrond added in osanwe as he snuggled closer to his twin’s warmth.  

 _He is hurting, you know…_   _inside…_ Elros winced slightly as Elrond touched his injured cheek. Maedhros’ outbursts of rage never failed to shock them. The Feanorions had treated them with kindness since they were brought to Amon Ereb. The memories of their real parents and Sirion were a distant dream now. At first they had sworn to flee for home as soon as they were old enough to make their escape. However, they soon came to look upon the Feanorions as family and their grim fortress as home.  

At breakfast after the latest outburst, Maedhros had informed them they were to be sent back to their kinsman Lord Cirdan. The twins remembered the old elf with his white beard and his kindly eyes the colour of the waves. They vaguely recalled the pretty seashells he showed them on the sand. Thinking back on their early childhood, they recalled the light from their nana’s gem the most. They had seen the same light as a new star in the sky and wondered at it. Elrond thought perhaps the Valar had put their nana’s gem up in the sky because their parents were dead and they could not find them at Amon Ereb to give it to them. They had come to terms with the prospect that they were orphans.  

 _Nana chose to jump,_ Elros reminded.  

 _She turned into a bird…_  Elrond added with a yawn. Looking back, it was like a surreal dream.  _Elves did not turn into birds, do they?_  Elros had leapt off the stable roof once and was fortunate to land in a big pile of manure. Elrond had to wade into the pile to drag his brother out. Maedhros had given them a stern talking-to after Maglor had the pair scrubbed raw in the baths.  

Home was Amon Ereb, not distant Sirion. There was no Ada Maglor and Uncle Maedhros at Sirion – not as they knew them. They had been reeking of blood and smoke then. Strong arms grabbing and dragging them away from a burning tower, riding away into the night and the unknown with their captors.   

 _I am sure he doesn’t mean it._   

 _It will be a great adventure if he does…_  Elros smiled. Everything had the potential to be a great adventure for him.  

 _I don’t want to leave…_  Elrond insisted.  _I am afraid to leave them like that…_  

* * *

 

“Mornel! We have news from your brothers!” Galadriel called out to Mornel as she and Gil-galad strolled back to the citadel after a lazy day on the beach gathering shells. 

To Lord Cirdan’s dismay, the young king had no desire to spend such a beautiful day in council with the Elven leaders of the Host. Gil-galad had coaxed Mornel into joining him on an excursion to the rock pools at dawn. They met Lady Uinen there. The young king had been awestruck meeting a Maia of Lord Ulmo’s. He had heard tales of Lord Ulmo appearing to Tuor and Voronwe, but he had never expected to meet a Maia in person. Lady Uinen giggled, and said that had he gone to the war council like a good little elf, he would have met several of the Valar. Lords Ulmo, Orome, and Tulkas would be in attendance this morning, and perhaps even Lord Manwe himself.  

Midway through the council meeting, a pigeon from the Mouths of Sirion arrived. A lone messenger elf from Amon Ereb had arrived with an interesting proposition from the Feanorions. 

“They wish to return the sons of Earendil?” Mornel asked. “Without conditions?” she added and immediately hated herself for it. She had been hearing so much of her brothers’ bloody deeds that she could no longer picture them willingly surrendering Earendil’s children without seeking the Silmaril in return.  _Had they really fallen that far?_  Yet they had raised the elflings for the seven years since they were carried away from Sirion, Mornel reminded herself.  

“Aye, but this will still pose a problem. The road to Amon Ereb is long and fraught with dangers for young elflings. It will not do for your brothers’ troops to ride freely into Sirion. Neither will they tolerate us sending warriors to Amon Ereb to fetch the twins. Further negotiations will be required,” Galadriel replied grimly. Tyelpe would be one of their messengers, but Galadriel wondered what her cousins would make of their little sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, the twins are about 13 years old. I imagine them as being equivalent as to 10-year-old human children physically, but intellectually they are both way ahead thanks to their Maia heritage. Yes, Maedhros is definitely slipping into insanity.
> 
> Tyelpe - a familiar form of Celebrimbor's Quenya father-name (Telperinquar). I imagine Curufin and the Feanorions would continue using Quenya in defiance of the Thingol's ban. I have Galadriel using it as an affectionate form of address for him.


	8. Amon Ereb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornel is sent to Amon Ereb as her uncle’s herald. The party is joined by an unwelcome traveller.

Arafinwe rubbed his temples and sipped at his mint tea. Cousin Isilmire insisted it was good for headaches but it seemed to have no effect on his. _Put two Noldor in a room and you have five disagreements. Add the Sindar and Vanyar and you have a civil war on your hands._ Gil-galad was being difficult by refusing to listen to the wisdom of his mentor. No one else wanted anything to do with the Feanorions but Lord Cirdan felt their expertise would be priceless in the coming war. The bone of contention now was the fate of Earendil’s sons and whether Gil-galad should parley with the Feanorions. The Sindar lords were not too thrilled about the suggestion. Lord Oropher had stomped off mid-discussion when Lady Galadriel insisted he put down his grudges against the Noldor long enough to listen to her father speak.    

“They are the children of Elwing and thus should be returned to…” 

“But they have been raised by the Kinslayers all this while… what if that Oath has touched them?” 

“Their father is the grandson of Turgon and we believe…” 

“We may take the young princes back but my people will never fight alongside Kinslayers.” 

“May not we seek the Valar’s advice on this?” The Valar opted to remain neutral. 

It took the better part of two days to formulate a reply to the Feanorions’ offer of parley. Next was the argument over who should be dispatched on the hazardous journey to Amon Ereb. Celebrimbor, son of Curufin, would go. It was hoped the blood he shared with his uncles would incline them to look favourably on the envoys. Legolas of the House of the Tree was put forward by Lord Galdor for his skills as a scout and warrior. 

“There is one other who should go…” Galadriel declared. “Mornel Feanoriel, as my father’s herald.” Her words were immediately greeted by an uproar. Everyone had expected it would be Lord Celeborn or a Sinda who would make up the party. 

“My daughter, is this wise?” Arafinwe asked. He was stunned by how much his little girl had changed. No longer was she a pampered princess but an astute stateswoman in her own right. In some way, she reminded Arafinwe of Mornel – an elleth who had defied the odds to become a leader. 

“Blood calls to blood, atar. Perhaps Mornel might talk some sense into her brothers. Perhaps only then will they see the wisdom in seeking the forgiveness of the Valar for their sins, and pledging their allegiance to us,” Galadriel noted. 

 _Of course, the entire thing hinged on how sane the Feanorions were now._ Maedhros had lain off attacking Doriath until after Fingon’s death and Luthien’s. Maedhros had little love or respect for Turgon who spent his kingship in his hidden city. No one knew if the Feanorions would pledge allegiance to young Gil-galad, whom Caranthir had once referred to as an ill-starred whelp born of a bitch and a fool. Fingon’s marriage had not been deemed normal by Noldor custom. Perhaps his bride had acted over hastily in using enchantments to try and win Fingon’s affections. Noble, valiant Fingon had married more out of duty than of true love, so they say, to cover the lady’s shame. None would question Ereinion’s right to the kingship more fiercely than the Feanorions although they had been dispossessed.

* * *

Three elves left the safety of the Havens of Sirion on horseback – Celebrimbor, Mornel, and Legolas. Mornel hoped Fearocco would behave himself during their journey. The Feanorions’ messenger had been sent ahead to inform his masters. In the meanwhile, the leaders of the Host and the remaining free elves and men met to discuss plans for war. Mornel felt it a pity she was unable to meet the Edain leaders. She had heard much of them from Finrod. Their lives were short but their flame burned bright. Their fear passed not into Lord Namo’s keeping but beyond the circles of Arda. The brothers Hurin and Huor had fought alongside the elves of Gondolin during the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, sacrificing their lives to allow Turgon’s retreat. There was also the sorrowful tale of Turin, sang by the bard Gildor Inglorion. The most famous Adan of all was Beren the One-Handed, who snatched the Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown. 

“You should have taken a regular horse – Ouch!” Legolas yelped as Fearocco bit his hand. Mornel grinned sheepishly. It seemed a good idea at first. Fearocco was a massive beast and that made traveling through the forest difficult. Mornel chose to proceed on foot to avoid the low-hanging branches. They tried putting their rations on him but Fearocco objected to being used as a pack animal by rolling over on top of their lembas. Legolas cussed as he nursed his now-bleeding hand. Fearocco nickered wickedly. 

“Shush, I think we are being followed…” the scout suddenly glanced about and motioned for his companions to hide. Instead, Celebrimbor spat and reached for his dirk. Legolas readied his sling. Mornel unsheathed her sword and they waited. A horse and its rider crashed through the trees. 

“Peace! I come in peace!” the rider yelped when he saw the drawn weapons. That lapse of attention caused him to lose his balance and tumble off his steed. 

“Milord! Forgive me,” Legolas dropped his weapon and fell to his knees. 

“Ereinion Gil-galad, what in the name of Mandos are you playing at?” Celebrimbor seized the young king by the shoulder, lifted him onto his feet, and shook him hard. The Feanorion temper had bred true in him too. A second rider caught up with them and Mornel recognized him as the bard Gildor. 

“Lord Cirdan will not be pleased…” Mornel added as she sheathed her sword. 

“My lord, may we return to Sirion now?” Gildor pleaded as he glanced about nervously. Sundown was approaching fast. They would need to find shelter before the orcs and wargs ventured forth. Morgoth’s creatures found strength in the night. 

“We wish to parley with the Feanorions,” Gil-galad insisted. “We left a letter for Lady Galadriel. As the High King I…” 

“Aye, as if my uncles would treat with a snot-nosed brat like you,” Celebrimbor snorted. “Turn back, my king.” 

“Nay, after thinking over the Shipwright’s words, I wish to treat with the Feanorions, and I wish to do it in person. As your king, I command it…” Gil-galad’s voice held an edge of petulance. Celebrimbor grumbled under his breath and released the king.   

“Legolas, are Elven kings of Beleriand such stubborn fools?” Mornel bit back a curse. 

“Aye, some were. His late Majesty Turgon refused to heed Lord Ulmo’s warning and thus Gondolin fell…” the scout shrugged. 

“Tell me about it, King Orodreth refused to heed Lord Cirdan’s advice…” Gildor agreed. It was too late for them to return to Sirion without delaying their journey further. They would have to make camp and proceed to Amon Ereb in the morning as planned.

* * *

It was their great fortune they were not waylaid by bandits or orcs en route to Amon Ereb. It became painfully clear to Mornel that Gil-galad had been cosseted since childhood. He wrinkled his nose in distaste when he learned they were to sleep on blankets in the open. The lembas was not to his liking. He moaned about his saddle sores until Celebrimbor volunteered to have a pair of iron breeches made for him, decorated with lace filigree to befit a princess. Gildor the bard was no stranger to the rigours of travel. On the third day of the journey, he negotiated with some dwarves for a night’s sleep in their cave and a hearty meal. They would have spent two nights if Fearocco had not broken one of the many machines the dwarves used in the mine. 

“His Highness Finrod used to take me along when he went visiting his dwarven friends and the Edain,” the bard explained. “Orodreth did not fancy travelling that much. Finrod took me in after I was found wandering as a young elfling in the ruins of an elven settlement. Orcs probably killed my parents. Can’t even remember what they look like…” 

“I never knew my ada or nana save for what they tell me about them and the occasional letter from His Majesty Fingon” Gil-galad muttered bitterly. “Sometimes I think they have forgotten about me.” 

“I am sure they remembered you,” Mornel reassured the young king. 

“My parents died when Gondolin fell,” Legolas stared at his soup. “So many elves perished that day and even more faded from grief afterwards.” Mornel nodded sombrely. In the healing wards of Cirdan’s citadel, her aunt Lalwen secluded herself in her deep grief over the loss of her son Laurefindel. Her cousin had died a hero, fighting a Balrog to cover the escape of refugees from the burning city.  

“My nana died in the Battle of the Sudden Flame when Himlad fell. I always thought it a pity it was not my adar who fell instead,” Celebrimbor observed grimly. Gildor gave an awkward cough. There was nothing they could say to rebut that. Curufin had cost Nargothrond and the Exiles dear with his meddling. 

“Careful, Aunt. You look very much like him,” he added. “The shock might just kill Uncle Maglor and Uncle Maedhros.”

* * *

Almost two weeks into the journey, Legolas returned to camp one morning after a brief scouting foray with two warriors from Amon Ereb. On catching sight of Mornel, both went pale as a sheet until Celebrimbor introduced her. Even then, they kept casting furtive glances her way. 

“Will it help if I don a gown?” a frustrated Mornel asked out loud as they approached the fortress. Perhaps her travelling garments were too masculine. 

“Nay, methinks it will disturb them even more,” Celebrimbor replied with a grin. 

“Perhaps we can find some flowers for your hair,” Legolas jested too. The elves broke out in laughter at the unbidden mental image of Curufin in a gown with flowers in his hair. 

They were greeted at the drawbridge by even more curious warriors and servants. News had spread quickly in the fortress. It was rare for visitors to call on Amon Ereb, more so visitors from Sirion and Balar. Among the crush of elves were two dark-haired elflings who were trying to peer over the battlements by standing on each other.  

“I wanna see too!” 

“Me first!” 

“Elros! Gerroff my face!” 

“Sorry…” 

Maglor laughed at the antics of his young wards before lifting Elros up and setting him on the battlements. He repeated the process with Elrond. The surrounding elves cleared a space for them when they saw Lord Maglor was there. Maglor recognized his nephew in the lead, valiantly holding a flag of truce and the ragged banner of the current High King, which Fearocco had chewed up before stomping into the mud after Gil-galad called him a clumsy ox after he broke the dwarves’ machinery. 

Two elves brought up the rear of the party, most likely servants by their bearing. Maglor thought one was Gildor Inglorion. Two other elves rode in the middle. Maglor’s eyes narrowed when he recognized the resemblance to Fingon in the features of the younger elf. _Ereinion Gil-galad._ If the High King thought it necessary to pay them a visit, it could not be good news. The last elf was astride a magnificent steed far larger than the others… Maglor felt a chill run through him and his knees buckled. 

“Ada Maglor?” Elrond queried. He had never seen his foster father so pale. “Ada, are you well?” 

“Just a touch of sun…” Maglor nodded shakily. _Surely no other elf could so closely resemble his father save Curufin._ They had placed Curufin’s corpse on a pyre between Celegorm’s and Caranthir’s and lit it outside Doriath’s borders. There must be some logical explanation for what he was witnessing. He needed to find Maedhros and warn him. 

“It hurts!” Elrond yelped suddenly. Maedhros had stepped up behind them unnoticed. Now his hand was digging painfully into the elfling’s shoulder. There was a glazed look in his eyes. He had seen the envoys arrive. Maglor and Elros firmly pried Maedhros’ hand loose. Elrond was gritting his teeth in pain. Perhaps something had been broken. 

“No, we burned him, didn’t we? He’s dead… That’s not him, couldn’t be…” Maedhros murmured as he wandered off in a daze through the throng of wary onlookers. 

“Get him to the healers,” Maglor instructed Elros before hurrying after his brother. He must get Maedhros calmed down first before they meet their nephew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Gil-galad is young and rash with much to learn before he becomes a leader of the Last Alliance. Maedhros and Maglor are shocked by the appearance of Mornel. I chose to include in the party Legolas of Gondolin as a scout and Gildor Inglorion. I picture Gildor as being adopted by Finrod at some point for him to be called Inglorion


	9. First Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornel meets her brothers but the meeting does not go as well as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mornel meets her two eldest brothers but the reunion does not go as planned. Gil-galad gets a rude reality check about kingship and his abilities (or lack of) courtesy of Maedhros.

“Why were we not informed of their arrival?” Maglor demanded of his captain. “I know Tyelpe was to be part of the party but Gil-galad and that ellon who looks like Curufin…”  The messenger they dispatched to the Havens had returned two days ago with a wound received in a skirmish with a stray patrol of orcs. 

“Forgive me, my lord… Caundil was delirious with the orc poison when he rode in. He has not awoken since,” the captain explained. Their messenger was still fighting the poison in the healing ward. “That elf… gave me a start too, but they say she is Mornel Feanoriel…” 

“Feanoriel? As in a daughter of my father’s line?” Maglor raised an eyebrow. “We have no sister…” 

“Well, apparently you do now, my liege.” 

“Impossible!” Maglor snapped. He saw the tall frame of his brother striding down the stairs towards the main courtyard and hastened after him. Their servants would be taking the horses from the party there to be stabled and fed. By the commotion, the grooms were having a bit of a problem with one or more of the horses. 

 _Fearocco, please behave…_ Mornel groaned in osanwe as her steed reared up and kicked. 

 _Why should I?_ Fearocco snorted with disdain. 

“Perhaps I should take care of him, just show me to the stables,” she seized the reins and dodged the flailing hooves. The mighty stallion lowered his forelegs and seemed to turn docile. Maglor caught up with his red-haired brother as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Mornel caught sight of the two lords of Amon Ereb and gasped. 

The tall ellon with the mop of cropped copper-red tresses could only be Nelyafinwe Maitimo. However, he was no longer the handsome son Nerdanel had named him for. His face was marred by scars, as were his exposed arms. His right arm terminated in a stump above the wrist. His shoulders were twisted and his gait unsteady. His nose had been broken and not set properly when healing. Kanafinwe Makalaure followed close at his heels. Weariness was etched on his gentle features. 

 _My brothers…_  

Celebrimbor curtly nodded to both to acknowledge his uncles’ arrival. Kinship bound them still despite his wanting nothing to do with their Oath. Gildor and Legolas hung back, wishing to have as little to do with the Kinslayers as possible. 

“Curufinwe…” 

When a wild-eyed Maedhros closed in on Mornel, their nephew swore and stepped into his path. Mornel’s heart sank when she saw the mad light in her brother’s eyes. Galadriel had warned her that tortures of Angband had scarred Maedhros deeply. 

“ _Mae govannen_ , Lords Maedhros and Maglor!” Gil-galad called out a greeting which was overly bright given the tension in the air. The greeting distracted the redhead long enough for Celebrimbor to lead Mornel and her horse away to the stables. Maedhros’ attention and ire was now directed at the hapless young king. 

“What is your business with us, your Majesty?” Maedhros grated. It was painful seeing how much Gil-galad resembled his dear cousin Fingon. 

“We come for the twins and we wish for you to commit your forces with ours against the Black Foe!” Gil-galad piped. Maedhros’ face darkened. 

“The Host of the Valar have come from Valinor to aid us. We will defeat him for sure! You have to join us!” the oblivious king continued undeterred by the tangible change in the atmosphere. 

“Whilst you hide behind Lady Galadriel’s skirts or in Cirdan’s citadel?” Maedhros snorted. “Look here, you snivelling knave. You have no right to command us! You are not half the elf your father…” 

“I am the High King and I will lead the army of the Noldor – oof!” The blow when it came was swift and unexpected. Maedhros drove his left fist into Gil-galad’s gut hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Both Gildor and Legolas hastened forward to aid the king before he fell flat on the ground. Maglor restrained his brother before he could strike the young king again. 

“You know nothing of battle and war…” Maedhros shook his head and strode off. Maglor muttered an apology before hurrying after his brother. Mornel and Celebrimbor watched the exchange in horror. One of the Kinslayers had actually struck the High King. Fearocco nickered as if amused, earning him a glare from his mistress. Mornel glanced upwards and caught a glimpse of two identical pale faces peering from one of the windows. The pair ducked out of sight when they met her gaze. At least the twins seemed to be well cared for.

* * *

In the Havens of Sirion, Lord Celeborn glanced up from his scroll as his wife entered their tent after returning from a patrol. 

“Any news of the lad? There have been signs of orcs…” Galadriel shushed him with a kiss. 

“Nay, but rest your fears. Ereinion is safe though methinks he will find his welcome at Amon Ereb less than warm,” Galadriel winked as she reached under her bed for a small scrying  bowl of carved garnet which Melian had given her prior to their leaving Thingol’s realm so long ago. Perhaps it was time the boy grew up, even if her cousins had to thrash him for that to happen.

* * *

Maedhros’ rage seemed to have abated by dinnertime and he was able to take his place in the dining hall where a simple banquet had been arranged to welcome their guests. Both Legolas and Gildor hovered protectively behind Gil-galad’s chair. Maedhros seemed relaxed and at ease in his role as their host. He ordered two additional chairs to be brought in and places set for the ellyn beside the king. The twins were not present for the meal. Perhaps it was felt they were too young to share a table with their royal visitor. 

“Apologies, we should have warned you…” Celebrimbor said. 

“No harm done…” Maglor replied, to which Gil-galad made a face. The Kinslayers were acting the roles of gracious hosts after their turbulent first meeting. Occasionally, Mornel would feel her brothers’ eyes on her but each time they would turn their attention to the food on their plates or strike a conversation with Celebrimbor. 

Finally, when a dessert of fruit was served, Maedhros breached the question which had hung so heavily over the dinner.

“Mornel, tell me, when were you begotten? How is it that we were not aware of your existence?” 

“Before Ada left Tirion, he came to Nana to say goodbye… I was begotten then, and born a year from that night… but a year may as well be a night during the time of Darkening.” Maedhros made a strangled sound in his throat and Maglor stepped in with his own questions. 

“Is Nana well? And my wife, Linde?” 

“Nana now lives in Alqualonde where her statues are in great demand. Peace has been reached between King Olwe and Uncle Arafinwe for many yeni now. She is not troubled by the Teleri in any way. Lady Serelinde serves as a minstrel in King Olwe’s court. The princes of the Teleri have returned from Mandos, as have many of their people… They bear her no grudge.” 

“Tell them both I am sorry… and tell Linde I will free her from our union if she so desires… she deserves so much better than me…” Maglor rose from his chair and stumbled out with unshed tears shining in his eyes. Maedhros watched his departure without any move to stop or follow him. However, the easy warmth in his eyes was gone when he turned back to face Mornel. Instead, his grey eyes were cold as stone. 

“Tell me, sister. What is your purpose in seeking us out now? You come to us under Finarfin’s banner…” 

“And rightly so, for I am His Majesty’s herald. Please, my brothers. We mean you no harm. Firstly, we come to negotiate the return of the sons of Earendil. Secondly, we wish to have your aid in the coming war against our common foe. Last but not least, I urge you both  to put aside the Oath and seek the forgiveness of the Valar…” 

“You expect us to grovel before dear Uncle Arafinwe and the Valar like dogs? Set aside the Oath we swore to our father?” Maedhros’ voice was icy. “You know nothing…” 

“Are the Silmarilli that important? Are those gems worth slaying kin over?” Mornel grated and rose from her chair. Celebrimbor rose too and cautiously made his way to his uncle’s side. The outburst was imminent. A wary Gil-galad muttered an excuse and fled the hall with his two self-appointed bodyguards. No one wished to meddle in the matters of the House of Feanor. 

“You know nothing! Five of us have already died for that Oath, and Atto too. We swore! We all swore!” Maedhros lashed out and swept the serving platter of fruit off the table. “See? The Valar mock us even now!” he pointed at the Silmaril twinkling high in the night sky outside the fortress’ windows. “Never mind, there are two more… Two more to save us from the Void…” 

“Brother, stop this madness!” Mornel snapped. “I saw Pityo in a dream. He is in Mandos and not in the Void. The Oath is not valid, for Eru Iluvatar and the Valar did not accept it!” 

“A trick by Lord Irmo, no doubt, to turn you into their little lap-dog like Uncle Arafinwe,” the redhead fell back into his chair. “If not, all the deeds we had done for the Oath are for naught… No, it’s worth it. Those were Atto’s best work… No right to demand it… They have no right…” 

“Nelyo!” A now-composed Maglor returned to the hall to find it in disarray. Seeing his brother was on the verge of another episode of madness, he shouldered Maedhros’ weight and took his leave of his sister and nephew. Wary servants crept into the hall to clean up the mess as soon the Feanorions left. 

“That did not go well,” Celebrimbor observed. Mornel nodded sadly.

* * *

The Feanorions did not appear for breakfast the next day. They were also absent from the midday meal. Their servants tended to the needs of their guests in their absence. Mornel and her nephew strove to find the sons of Earendil after breakfast but all they caught were shadowy glimpses or the piping whispers of the elflings from some obscure corner. It would seem that when an elf of Luthien’s line decided not to be found, they would not be found. Perhaps they had noted their guests’ interest in them and had been playing a game with them all morning. 

In the mid-afternoon, Mornel watched from a second floor corridor window as Gil-galad sparred with Legolas and Gildor in turn. Celebrimbor had gone off to shoe one of their horses. She noted both Gildor and Legolas were not really trying very hard. Gil-galad was a novice with the staff and worse with a sword. Gildor had to show him how to hold the training sword properly in his hand. She giggled when Gil-galad lost his grip on his staff and whacked himself accidentally between the eyes. 

“That little fool…” a voice grated behind her. Mornel spun round. It was Maedhros. “Even Elrond could do better!” he spun round on his heel and disappeared down the corridor at a quick pace. Mornel considered following but someone held her back. It was Maglor. He shook his head slowly. Peering out from behind Maglor were two elflings. 

“Mornel. These are the children of Earendil.” 

“ _Mae govannen,_ little ones,” Mornel smiled. “Now which of you is Aeradan, and which is Aerohir?” 

“I am Elros,” one elfling piped indignantly. 

“I am Elrond,” the other corrected with a scowl. Perhaps they had taken the names her brothers gave them after carrying them off from their home. 

“Boys, where are your manners?” Maglor chided gently. 

“Nice to meet you, Lady Mornel…” the twins piped. 

Hearing the sounds of blows and grunts from the yard below, the elves looked out the window. Maedhros was sparring with Gil-galad and besting him. Mornel winced as a particularly vicious kick sent the young elf flying across the yard. Her brother had no qualms about thrashing his opponent, High King or not. 

“Call that fighting? Even an elfling could do better than you!” Maedhros bellowed. Wiping blood from his nose, Gil-galad stood up facing the one-armed warrior, staff in hand. 

“Looks like someone inherited his adar’s feistiness,” Maglor chuckled softly. “Fingon used to keep coming back to wrestle with Nelyo, even though he kept getting beaten black and blue.” 

“Should we stop them?” Mornel asked quietly. Gildor and Legolas hung at the edge of the yard, not daring to intervene. 

“Nay, methinks Nelyo needs this, and Gil-galad too. That ellon needs to toughen up,” Maglor shook his head. “Come with me to the parlour. There is much we need to talk about.” The twins had grown bored and were chasing each other about the corridor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mae govannen - Well met (Sindarin) 
> 
> Maglor is still acting quite sane for now. Maedhros seemed to have taken a strong dislike to Mornel and Gil-galad on some level. He might view Mornel’s decision to work for their Uncle Ara a betrayal of their family. Gil-galad is getting a crash course in the warrior arts from Maedhros.


	10. Peaceweaver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor and Mornel have a chat in private. Galadriel watches the young high king from afar. Maedhros is not accepting his sister and gets into an argument with Maglor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, for the long wait for this chapter. I was busy with some real-life problems and a bad case of writer’s block.

“Really?” Maglor chuckled as Mornel related how she had unwittingly played a part in mending their uncle’s marriage and the many pranks played on her by the Teleri. “The folk of Swan Haven were always game for pranks." Away from Maedhros and her fellow envoys, Mornel found Maglor both approachable and amiable. The twins played a game of knucklebones at their feet, tossing the small bones into the air and catching them without dropping any. It was an elflings’ game popular with the Sindar, Maglor explained.   

“Aerohir and Aeradan… so those are their birth names. They never spoke a word when we rode from Sirion. It took a month before they started talking,” Maglor mused. “Perhaps we should use their real names…” It was apparent Maglor cared deeply for the twins, and they for him.

“We prefer being Elros and Elrond, thank you,” one of the twins piped up as he deftly snatched up the bones and tossed them into the air. The children played as grown-ups chatted. Tiring of their game, the twins scampered over to a wooden chest from which they retrieved a ball festooned with small bells. Laughing, they kicked and chased after their new toy. Mornel waited until their laughter faded down the corridors. It was time to address more serious matters.   

“Linde would not agree to have your bond severed for she loves you still…” Mornel informed her brother.

“Despite what has happened?” Maglor asked. “She deserves so much better than a Kinslayer… Lindo will be kind to her…”

“I have spoken with Prince Earlindo. He bears you no grudge as your actions were an act of mercy. You did not wilfully slay any elves at Alqualonde.”

“But I did so at Doriath and Sirion. I slew ellyn and ellyth alike,” Maglor replied. “We all did…”

“But you raised the twins…”

“Would you rather we left them orphans in the burning ruins of their home? We took them as hostages and possibly to exchange them for the Silmaril, nothing else…” Maglor replied.

“Liar,” Mornel chided. “Maglor, please come with us to Sirion to seek the forgiveness of the Valar…” She watched as Maglor’s resolve seemed to waver.

“You snivelling excuse for an elf! Stand and fight!” Maedhros bellowed from the yard. Their brother’s voice snapped Maglor out of his thoughts. He sucked in a deep breath.

“Mornel Feanariel, I will not return with you to kneel before the Valar and Uncle Arafinwe, not without Maedhros. I will not abandon him a second time.” With that, Maglor left Mornel alone with her thoughts.

* * *

“Milord. I swear Lord Maedhros is trying to kill you so as to take kingship,” Legolas observed tartly. Gil-galad winced as Gildor rubbed a healing salve onto his bruises. He ached all over.

“My uncles do not desire the kingship,” Celebrimbor snorted as he and Mornel entered the baths where Gil-galad was being tended to. The young king blushed scarlet and reached for his towel. Mornel shrugged. She had seen her share of naked ellyn in Formenos where the common baths were often used by both sexes at the same time. It was simply more economical to use the fuel in that manner for heating, especially in wintertime. Of course, mixed bathing was considered scandalous in Tirion.

“I agree with him. What they desire are the Silmarilli,” Mornel added. _And I fear it will lead to their doom,_ she added silently as her eyes met her nephew’s. Celebrimbor nodded as he acknowledged the unspoken fear. He offered a towel to his aunt. They had gone to the baths to wash up before dinner. Instead of proceeding to one of the private alcoves, Mornel remained in the common area of the baths. Celebrimbor murmured an excuse about forgetting something in his room and left. Old habits die hard. Even in the privations of the Havens, ellyth and ellyn took their turns by gender in the bathing tents.

“What of the elflings, Lady Mornel? Have you spoken with your brothers about their return to their kin?” Legolas inquired.

“Aye, I have spoken with Maglor. Maedhros is eager to have the elfings sent to a place of safety in Balar. However, the twins seem reluctant to be parted from their guardians, whom they regard with no small affection. Maglor is also reluctant to part with them but he will heed Maedhros’ decision,” Mornel replied. For modesty’s sake, she wore the towel about her chest as she poured water over her head before wringing out her hair.

“You look very much like Curufin,” Gildor murmured as he stole a peek at her bosom as if to reassure himself Mornel was indeed an elleth. Noticing the direction of his glance, Gil-galad smacked the ellon on the back of the head. Mornel was a noblewoman after all despite her capacity as Arafinwe’s herald and it was not polite to stare thus. Mornel stifled a laugh as the young king and his companions left. Shedding the towel, Mornel lowered herself into the water. The bath was still warm enough despite having been used by Gil-galad and his companions earlier.

* * *

“How is our young high king faring?” Lord Celeborn asked his wife as Galadriel chuckled at the vision in her scrying bowl. Scrying was hard work but the images she was getting were worth the effort. Still, she could not hold them too long. With a pang of regret, she set the bowl aside.

“Maedhros is teaching him a fair bit about fighting in general, the same way he taught Fingon back in the Years of the Trees. Thankfully, Gil-galad is every bit his father’s son when it comes to stubbornness.”

“What of the twins of Earendil? Their adar wishes to know…”

“They are happy where they are, perhaps it will be harder to persuade them to leave Amon Ereb than we think,” Galadriel loosened her braids. The hour was late and she did not wish to waste the night.  

“But the Feanorions…”

“You forget, my love, my eldest cousins were no strangers to caring for elflings, having five younger siblings of their own and many little cousins besides _.” Before Uncle Feanaro started getting all paranoid about Uncle Nolo and forbade his children from mingling with their cousins,_ Galadriel added mentally. Findekano had learnt the basics of wrestling from Maitimo. Irisse had hunted with Tyelkormo and his younger brothers. Findarato took his first official music lessons in Tirion under Makalaure’s tutelage. Galadriel continued combing out her hair as she laid back on the camp-bed with a decidedly come-hither look. She had already shed her armour for a light robe before her husband’s arrival.  

“Could they make the journey safely with the escort? Earendil would prefer his sons with their kin…” Celeborn pointedly ignored his wife’s bare toes brushing tantalisingly along his calf as he sat next to her. Galadriel pouted at his attempt to ignore her blatant attempts to get him into her bed.

“You forget, dearest, the Kinslayers are kin to the elflings too. Now, I must demand you make love to me tonight!” Galadriel declared impetuously as her robe flew across the tent. She was naked underneath.

“I hear and obey, my heart’s queen,” Celeborn replied as he blew out the lamp. The camp-bed creaked dangerously in the dark.

* * *

“Brother…” Maglor called out cautiously. Maedhros was standing at the window of his bedchamber, staring at the Silmaril rising in the night sky. Maglor had just tucked the twins into bed. Elrond and Elros were full of questions about Mornel and Maglor’s naneth. He had coaxed them to sleep with a lullaby his mother had sung to him as an elfling. It was at such times the yearning for the bygone years of innocence came the fiercest. Alas, there was no way they could return to the way things were.

“Nelyo…” Maglor called out as he approached Maedhros. His brother had made neither sound nor movement. When Maglor placed his hand gently on his elbow, Maedhros flinched and spun round as if startled. Maglor pulled his hand back. To his relief, Maedhros only shrugged as recognition dawned in his eyes. He then turned back to the window and their father’s creation. Maglor sighed wearily as he glanced at the Silmaril. He quickly turned away to gaze sideways at his brother. It was too painful seeing that light and knowing that they had sacrificed so much for nothing.

“What is it, Kano?” Maedhros asked harshly but his eyes remained fixated on the Silmaril’s light.

“It’s about Mornel, our sister… Do you remember how Amme often wished she had a daughter?”

“Well, Amme has her wish granted, but she is no sister of ours. She looks up to Uncle Ara as if…”

“Nelyo, quit being an ass! We were never there for her when she was an elfling. Atto and our brothers. Is it not natural that she would look up to our uncle as a father? Uncle Ara has raised her well…”

“He is a snivelling coward who would retreat in the face of danger…”

“Then perhaps it was not cowardice but wisdom that made him heed the Valar’s warning! If we had all turned back then… Pityo would still be alive! Curvo and the others too!”

“Enough!” Maedhros growled and clenched his fists.

“Nelyo, could we not treat her with the due courtesy as our guest, if not our kinswoman?” Maglor begged. “Can’t you see? She is the only hope left for the honour of our house!”

“The House of Feanor has been dispossessed! We have nothing but the Oath! Mornel Feanariel? More like Mornel Arafinwiel-”

“She has no father-name, Maedhros… Arafinwe never adopted her as his own. Neither did he bestow a father-name on her. She is still of the House of Feanor. You are the eldest, Maedhros. It is your due to grant her a father-name.”

“No.”

“Then as her brother, I would name her Serelanye, Peace-weaver. Do you not see her presence here is a chance for us to…”

“Maglor, my patience is at its end. Leave now or regret it,” Maedhros growled as he reached for the dirk at his belt. Maglor nodded curtly and stepped out of the room. It was useless to argue with his brother when he was in one of his moods. To remain could end in something Maedhros might later regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros is being very difficult although Maglor is more open to having a sister.


	11. Farewell to Amon Ereb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor and Maedhros reluctantly bid farewell to their charges and entrust them into the care of Gil-galad. A skirmish with orcs bring the High King’s party into contact with some Sindar warriors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not been posting for a while due to illness in the family and other real-life troubles. Thank you for your patience.

 

They were fast outstaying their welcome in Amon Ereb. Maedhros did not dine with them after the first week of their sojourn. The sparring sessions came to an abrupt end after Maedhros sent Gil-galad crashing head-first into a stone wall, stunning him and greatly alarming the spectators. There had been much blood from a deep gash to the ellon’s brow. When Mornel glanced up at her brother as she staunched the bleeding with a piece of cloth torn from her sleeve, she was struck by how pale he looked and the haunted look in his eyes. When their eyes met, Maedhros turned away as if unwilling to meet her gaze. Mornel returned her attention to her patient and when she next looked up, her brother was gone.

Mornel was awoken from her slumber one night by a feeling of unease. Thunder rolled ominously overhead as lightning ripped the skies apart. Cautiously, she stepped out of her room and strode down the corridor to where the windows overlooked the courtyard. Someone was kneeling in the mud, heedless of the raindrops plastering his red hair to his brow. _Maedhros._

“Atto, where have we gone wrong?” he yelled into the fury of the storm and Mornel felt her heart twist at the despair and agony in his voice. “Were their deaths all for naught?”

A second figure peeled away from the shadows and joined him. Mornel recognized Maglor’s face in a flash of lightning. He forced his brother onto his feet and bundled him out of the rain.

When she asked Maglor about their brother’s absence at breakfast, he claimed Maedhros had taken ill and refused to discuss the matter any further. Elves hardly ever fell ill, save from injury or wounds to the fea. Maglor would decline her offer to treat Maedhros with the knowledge she had learnt from Lorien.

Maglor still joined his guests for the occasional meal, taking on the duties of a host in his brother’s absence. However, he picked at his food and barely ate. The circles under his eyes were darker and his face paler. Both her brothers were suffering from the weariness and grief of their many years in war-torn Beleriand. All she could do was to aid the healers in preparing herbal concoctions to ease her brothers’ wounded fear.

Within the healing halls, Mornel encountered the twins assisting the healers of Amon Ereb in the preparation of healing tinctures. It was often Elrond who undertook the task of preparing the concoctions under the watchful eyes of the chief healer. Mornel noted the elfling’s attention to detail and remarkable patience. Elros was often rebuked for his lack of attention to the detailed preparations. He was not one to sit quietly watching the fire. He had to be moving about, always. To spend hours watching a concoction simmer was torment to him. To ease Elros’ restlessness, Mornel told the twins tales of her childhood in Aman and her building of Formenos. Elrond was fascinated by the lore of the Eldar and the healing arts while Elros was more interested in the tales of her adventures in the wilds of Aman.

“I want to be a warrior when I grow up and go hunting orcs!” Elros declared and swung his spatula about like a sword.

“El! Watch out!” Elrond yelped and made a dive to catch a bowl his twin had accidentally knocked off the table.

Celebrimbor kept himself aloof from his uncles, preferring the company of Legolas and Gildor. His brief interactions with the elflings were awkward to say the least. Celebrimbor was ill at ease with children, having been raised as an only child by his parents with nary any playmates his age. Curufin had taken his son under his wing at an early age, teaching him both in the schoolroom and forge. Play was a strange concept to him and children’s games were a mystery to him. More often, the twins delighted in pulling childish pranks on him much to the mirth of his companions. The hapless ellon came down to breakfast one morning covered with soot after the twins rigged the contents of the coal scuttle over his chamber door. Another time it was blue dye on his towel.

Negotiations for the twins’ journey were underway between Gil-galad and Maglor. Gil-galad was trying his best to act as spokesperson. Celebrimbor had deferred the leadership of their party to him. A spell of foul weather had delayed their expected departure but the days were turning warmer. Maglor had the servants pack the twins’ few belongings as the twins watched on in dismay.

* * *

 

It was a bright, sunny morning when a pair of weeping elflings hugged Maglor goodbye in the yard where they had spent many hours training and playing under their guardians’ watchful eyes. Maglor wept quietly too, though he was quick to wipe his tears away when he pushed the elflings firmly into the arms of his nephew. Maedhros was conspicuously absent. Four guards from Amon Ereb would ride with them to the Havens. Mornel had spoken with Fearocco. The mighty horse had piqued the curiosity of the twins and they both clamoured to be allowed to ride him. Fearocco agreed to let the pair ride before Mornel in turn. For the first day, it was decided Elros would ride with Mornel while Elrond rode with Gildor. Celebrimbor hoisted Elrond into the saddle before Gildor. Legolas took a weeping Elros and lifted him up to Mornel where she sat in the saddle, reins in hand. Elros made a valiant effort to dry his tears but they kept coming. Suddenly, he looked up and lifted an arm as if in salute.

Mornel glanced upwards at the windows over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of red hair. Silently, a grim-faced Maedhros lifted his hand in a wave to his charges as they departed, riding out of the fortress gates. Elrond clutched a small harp to his breast, a farewell gift from Maglor. Elros had received a sword which was ironically too heavy for him to use at his age. It was entrusted to the care of Celebrimbor. Mornel immediately recognized the magnificent smith-work that went into its creation when she saw it. She wondered if she was looking at one of her father’s works, but the work seemed more refined than any elvish blade she had seen. When Mornel had protested such an extravagant gift to one so young, Maglor only shrugged.

“Perhaps he might have use of it someday… or perhaps his children…” her brother mused as he packed the sword away for the journey. Such a gift was an heirloom meant to endure through the Ages. Many yeni later, Mornel would look back on that conversation and wonder if her brother had foreseen the events of the coming Ages.

The youngsters were subdued as they rode. There was no chatter from them, which suited everyone just fine as they ventured away from the safety from Amon Ereb. With the sun up, there was little risk of orcs, for such creatures feared the light of the last fruit of Laurelin. Still, there was no need to tempt fate when they passed through forest so thick only a dim green light reached the forest floor. Legolas had mentioned that it was in such dark woods that the Princess Aredhel was enchanted by a dark elf and bore a son by him, the son who became the traitor of Gondolin. 

The first night spent in the wilds found both twins snuggled against Mornel’s side as they slept. “You remind us of Ada Maglor… Miss him… so much…” Elros murmured as her lullaby lulled him into slumber. It was a little disturbing to watch them sleep with their eyes closed. They seemed dead to the world but for their breaths against her cheek. Maglor had reassured her that such was the way of Men and the twins had inherited the trait from their Mannish forebears. Perhaps they would grow out of it. They were young still, but they already seemed to be on the cusp of adolescence. Their mother had borne them when she was still a minor by Elvish reckoning.  _Would they age in the manner of the Aftercomers, turning weak and grey, albeit at a slower rate?_ None of the half-elven had reached such an age. Elwing’s father and brothers struck down by the Feanorions and the twins’ parents granted Elf-hood by Eru Iluvatar’s grace.

* * *

 

“Orcs…” Legolas hissed a warning to his companions. They had been on the road for almost a week. Their path had taken them into a shaded gully, a likely spot for an ambush. Mornel felt Fearocco’s disdain as he snorted and pawed at the mossy ground. Elrond whimpered nervously and buried his face into the horse’s mane. Elros glanced about from the saddle of Gildor’s pony, peering into the shadows. There was a slight scrap of metal as swords were drawn by Gil-galad and the other elves.

“Lady Mornel, take the twins… head for safety,” Gildor lifted Elros off his steed and handed him to Mornel. Mornel shook her head as he settled Elros behind his brother and slid off her steed.

“Fearocco, protect the twins,” she whispered into his ear. She would stand and fight along the High King and her companions.

 _I will, my lady,_ Fearocco’s voice replied in her mind. Fearocco’s speed and wit would see the twins to safety at the Havens in a shake of his tail.

The attack was both sudden and merciless. Orcs poured down into the gully. The guards from Amon Ereb fought both bravely and fiercely but they were sorely outnumbers by the orcs. There was a grunt as one guard took a spear to the gut. Another fell to a hail of orc arrows.

Legolas screamed a war cry and smashed his club over the head of the nearest orc. It was too close for a sling. The club shattered on impact and the orc’s club smashed into the hapless ellon, sending him crashing into a boulder. Sword in hand, Gildor sprinted over to defend the fallen warrior, despatching two orcs en route. An orc arrow aimed for Mornel’s chest was sliced in half mid-flight by Celebrimbor’s sword. Fearocco took off but the steep sides and thick brush slowed him. A pair of orcs atop wargs tried to cut off the twins’ flight but Fearocco proved his worth by standing his ground and lashing out with his hooves. He tried to leap clear to the top of the gully, slipping and sliding on the loose stones before scrambling over the rim.

There was a shrill scream as one of the twins lost his grip on the stallion’s mane and tumbled down into the gully. The orcs smirked as they closed in their helpless prey. His brother cried out in dismay and grabbed the reins, urging Fearocco to leap back into the fray. The stallion obligingly leapt and crushed an orc under his bulk bare inches from the fallen elfling. Gil-galad and Celebrimbor were fighting back to back, holding their enemies at bay. Both were drenched in black orc-blood and a stray arrow protruded from Celebrimbor’s thigh. Mornel had been forced away from her companions and stood cornered with her back against the gully wall. She growled as the orcs closed in, grunting lewd things they would do to her. She swore to go down fighting.

A blast from a hunting horn rent the air, followed by a shower of arrows, all of which met their mark with an accuracy only seen in the most skilled of elven archers. Mornel made use of the distraction to make a break for her steed and the elflings, cleaving the head of the nearest living orc from his neck. Gil-galad ran another through as more green-clad elves emerged from the trees atop the rim of the gully. The orcs fled in the face of the elven reinforcements.

“Elrond!” an elfling screamed as an orc grabbed his stunned twin in a desperate gamble. Fearocco hesitated. He could not risk kicking Elrond whom the orc held before him as a shield. Mornel roared as she closed the distance. The orc raised his axe, ready to cut the limp elfling in two. He did not see Gil-galad scramble on silent hands and knees through the trees, flanking him. The young king swung his sword, lopping off the arm grasping the axe. As the orc stared mutely as his spurting stump, Gil-galad delivered the death blow, lopping off the orc’s head. Mornel reached the falling corpse just in time to snatch Elrond before he was crushed beneath its bulk.

“ _Mae govannen_ ,” Gildor panted as he wiped orc blood from his brow. He lowered his bloodied sword and allowed it to lie on the moss. Gil-galad flicked blood off his blade and sheathed it. The leader of the warriors lowered his hood.

“It would appear that not all of the Kinslayers’ lineage are capable warriors…” he sneered. Mornel glanced over to her nephew to find Celebrimbor sprawled on the moss, weak from blood loss. A groan came from Legolas as he limped over. One of the Feanorian guards lay motionless where he had fallen. The other guard still lived, just barely, cradling his spilled guts in his lap where his fellows had sat him against a boulder. Their comrades stoically went about finishing off any fallen orcs who still breathed. Elrond was just coming to in his twin’s arms. Mornel rummaged in her pack for bandages and poultices to treat the wounded. The Feanorian guards had kept to themselves for much of the journey. Mornel recalled the dead guard had a lovely voice and had sung along cheerfully whenever Gildor played his harp. An arrow now stuck out of his throat as his sightless eyes gazed into the leaves above.

“Lord Amdir, we thank you for your timely assistance…” Gil-galad forced the words out through clenched teeth.

“Lord Celeborn insisted we patrol these woods, at his Noldo lady’s recommendation – two weeks of orcs, wargs and spiders…” another warrior spat into the brush. “Are these the half-elven offspring of Princess Elwing?”

“Aye, Lord Oropher,” Gil-galad replied. “These are the princes of both the Sindar and Noldor. My kinsmen have cared for them all this while…”

“They look all Noldor to me. There is nought of their mother’s looks about them…” Oropher strode over to the twins and roughly seized Elros’ chin in his gloved hand. Elros glared defiantly at him. “Who’s to say these are not some Feanorion bastards foisted – Ow! This warg-pup bit me!”

Sensing his twin being threatened, a still-muddled Elrond had reacted by sinking his teeth into the exposed skin of Oropher’s wrist. Gil-galad grinned. Fearocco nickered and pawed the moss. Celebrimbor chortled despite the pain of his wounds. His little foster cousin was a feisty one. The mortally wounded guard managed a harsh bark of laughter before his fea flew to Mandos. Mornel closed his eyes. The fallen would be buried under a cairn just outside the gully as there was no time or fuel for a pyre.

“Our blood-parents are Earendil of Gondolin and Elwing of Doriath, fallen kingdoms both,” Elros stood up and declared. His twin held onto him for support as he struggled to stand. “However, we also count as our foster fathers Maglor and Maedhros for the love they have shown us!”

His words were immediately drowned out by exclamations from Amdir and Oropher’s men. Elrond groaned and sank back to the ground. Elros refused to be cowed.

“Silence! There may be minions of Shadow about. It is best we see to the dead and wounded before journeying to the safety of the Havens,” Gil-galad put as much royal command as he could in his words. The Sindar lords grumbled, but they relented. The young king stood before them covered in orc blood and only lightly wounded. He was no longer the untested charge of Cirdan but a young warrior. He had earned their grudging respect for now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine that Oropher and Amdir would have been about during the First Age in Doriath, possibly Thranduil too. There is definitely some tension between the Noldo and Sinda thanks to the Feanorions’ deeds in Alqualonde and Doriath.


	12. Uneasy Alliances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rifts not easily healed lie between the various fractions of the Havens. Mornel and the other healers from Valinor learn from those of Beleriand at great risk to their safety. Disaster befalls a pair of healers.

Their Sindar guides led them on a wearying march along steep and narrow paths, much to the discomfort of the wounded. Legolas had broken several ribs but soldiered on in stoic silence. Stubborn pride forbade them from showing any signs of weakness before the Sindar. Elrond was too dazed to sit upright in the saddle and had to be supported by his twin. Celebrimbor’s wound was showing signs of poison. Despite attempts to purge it, it was not long before he started running a fever. Mornel kept a close eye on the wounded and she was not the only one to do so. Gil-galad called for a rest on occasion when he sensed the toll their travel was taking on the wounded and the elflings. Elros scowled at being treated as a child but he soon saw how much the injured appreciated the breaks.

 _Lords Oropher and Amdir respect Gil-galad for his rank but they bear little love, if any, for him._ Mornel noticed the looks they gave him. Oropher had apologized, albeit with bad grace, to the twins over his ill-thought words at Gil-galad’s insistence and Lord Amdir’s advice. The twins were Elwing’s and of the Sindar royal lineage after all. Gil-galad would ask after the wounded with genuine concern. He had the makings of a king and someday he would be well-loved by his people.

Like the guards at Amon Ereb, the Nandor were awed by Mornel’s steed – a gift from the Lord of the Hunt himself, Gil-galad had informed them. Lord Orome was held in high regard by the Silvan hunters. Even on the steepest trails Fearocco was as sure as a mountain goat. One of the younger Silvans shyly asked if he might pat Fearocco. The horse obliged by nudging the warrior in the chest with his nose and then removing an apple from his jerkin. Neither Noldor nor Sindar spoke with each other more than was needed in an uneasy truce until they arrived at the Havens. Mornel did not encounter the two Sindar lords again after their return. For that she was grateful.

* * *

 

Back at the Havens of Sirion, Mornel resumed her duties in the healing tents where her nephew was recuperating from his poisoned wound. There was so much to learn of the healing arts from the Beleriand healers. Poisons and war-wounds were almost unheard of in the blessed land of Aman. There were new herbs and new methods to heal.

_Legolas is much recovered and Celebrimbor rose from his bed for the first time since his fever broke. Elrond has long healed from his fall and eager to help out in the healing tents. There is so much here we could learn from the healers of Beleriand. I have learned how to draw orc-poison out of a wound with a poultice of athelas leaves. Such healing techniques are new to us trained in Lorien as orc poison is not encountered in Valinor. I helped cut out a barbed arrowhead from a patient’s flesh just this morning. Such wounds are rarely, if ever, encountered in Valinor._

Mornel was not the only healer who found her knowledge growing by leaps and bounds. The healers who travelled with the Host were amazed at the wealth of new knowledge which awaited them. The most daring of them would venture outside the safety of the camp to gather herbs or meet with local healers in some secluded Nandor or Mannish village to learn from their herbalists. Noticing the frequent forays by their healers into the forest outside the protective perimeter to gather herbs, Arafinwe gave orders that they were to be accompanied by armed warriors at all times beyond the Havens’ protective boundaries.

The healers noted how the Edain who were their allies seemed to decline physically and mentally after reaching their prime. The concept of old age was new to such immortally youthful beings as the Eldar, especially those fresh from Valinor. Finrod had written an entire treatise on the aging process and the common ills which plagued the Edain of advanced age. _Do not be mistaken that frailty of their bodies translate to weakness of their spirit,_ her cousin had advised her. In many Edain communities, it was the elders whom they look to for leadership and guidance. It was the same for the Eldar, Mornel reflected. No doubt it was at Lord Cirdan’s counsel that the Sindar lords did not abandon the war council entirely and disappear into the forests where the Nandor dwelled.

Morgoth had wasted little time in enslaving as many of the Secondborn as he could and bending them to his foul purposes. Yet there were the Edain who had stood against Morgoth. These survivors and escaped slaves swore their loyalty to the Host but many of the Eldar still recalled the disaster which befell them in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears when the Easterlings betrayed the Union of Maedhros. Cirdan had to remind them constantly of those who had laid down their lives to allow Turgon’s forces to return to Gondolin and how it was Beren, a Man, who had dared enter Morgoth’s throne room, where even the fierce sons of Feanor dared not tread, of his own free will to snatch the Silmaril.

Only the elflings seemed to be impervious to the prejudices of their elders. Sindar, Noldor, and Silvan elflings played together, sometimes dragging an Edain child into their games. Elvish games could be hard on Edain children who lacked the nimble reflexes of the Firstborn. Elros was a ringleader of a pack of particularly boisterous Edain children during his twin’s recovery. Riding a cart dragged by a pack of wolfhounds through the camp was not mischief only the elflings were capable of. Neither was mixing strong Dwarf-beer into the council’s wine so that Arafinwe got roaring drunk enough to challenge Lord Amdir to a sword fight.    

Mornel had heard tales of the Nandor from those reborn in Valinor. These elves were especially attuned to nature and their settlements for most part were well-hidden in the forests. They dwelled not on the ground but in the trees themselves. It was a sign of immense trust to be allowed into their settlements. Maglor had informed her that Telvo had somehow earned the trust of the Green Elves of Ossiriand and had lived among them for many seasons. It was only when the Oath became unbearable for him that he ventured so far as to spy on Luthien and Beren in their final years. They had heard the rumours about Luthien’s choice to take the Doom of the Secondborn but the Feanorions did not believe it until their youngest surviving brother reported what he had witnessed back to them. Afterwards he had rejoined his brothers and stayed with them until his death. Mornel wondered if any of the Silvans who lingered about the fringes of the Havens hailed from Ossiriand and if they knew her brother.

“Be careful!” Mornel called out after Lomire and Isilmire as they passed her. The Vanyar twins had befriended a Nando hunter and his healer naneth. The older elf hardly left her hidden village, the location of which was secret even from the Sindar. The hunter had been reluctant to take the twins there despite their eagerness to learn herb-lore from his naneth in person. His people would not appreciate half a dozen armed outsiders entering their village. It took weeks of negotiations before Ingwion finally allowed them to go with only a pair of trusted Vanyar guards and the Nando hunter. _So far they had been lucky._ Mornel did not understand the sense of unease which weighed on her whenever the pair left the camp. It would be sleepless nights for her until their return a week or so later. 

Apart from the Edain and Nandor, there was the occasional Avari or Dwarf trader who came to the Havens. As soon as he was able to walk, Celebrimbor took Mornel and her smiths to meet some Dwarven traders. He blithely pointed out the merits of Dwarrow-forged weaponry and armour to Mornel and the Noldor smiths who sailed with the Host. Celebrimbor’s open praise was not well-received by the Eldar smiths. Mornel could only shake her head at the sour looks sent her nephew’s way.  Noldorin pride forbade the Valinor-born smiths from acknowledging the fine craftsmanship of the Dwarves so openly.

Beleriand was a wild and untamed place compared to the blessed land of Valinor. Not all were as taken by the beauty of the land, still visible under all the destruction wrought by Morgoth. Some of their companions were soon homesick for the pearly sands of Alqualonde or the white city of Tirion. Balar was a pale shadow of an Elvish city as they knew it. Not Mornel. _Perhaps her father’s restlessness flowed in her veins as well._ Mornel yearned to explore the wilds beyond their camp but her uncle had given her strict orders not to venture out without an armed escort after hearing of the orc attack from Gil-galad.

Lord Orome and his Maiar were said to ride in the woods, sending word to any Green Elves hidden there to join the battle or seek safety as they fought the denizens of the Shadow. Lord Ulmo watched over the mariners on their ships, including Aunt Earwen. Great Eagles soared from Balar and braved the foul smoke pouring from the distant peaks of Thangorodrim as they mapped the lay of the land between. Earendil sent word to his sons through Voronwe but what words they exchanged remained unknown to Mornel.

“They shouldn’t go...” Mornel muttered under her breath as she sorted through some herbs. There was much to do in camp – arrows to be fletched, armour to be fitted… but her thoughts kept returning to Ingwe’s granddaughters. Lord Celeborn and Galadriel were out leading a patrol. Gil-galad was caught up in a meeting with the leaders of the Host. Mornel had an appointment with Celebrimbor for a fitting of her new armour. A visiting dwarf-smith had amply demonstrated the flaw in her previous breastplate by smashing an axe through it. _Silver filigree is fancy but ‘tis no match for a sharp blade,_ the dwarf had observed. It was a pity her uncle’s gift did not stand up to the test of practicality. 

“Their adar allows it. Who are we to stop them?” Olorin said as he stepped into the tent.

“I don’t know, Master Olorin. I feel they are in danger… there are orcs, werewolves and other servants of Morgoth…”

“Perhaps,” the Maia shrugged.

“Gildor has returned. Not all the Dwarf clans are eager to fight alongside the Host. Some have chosen to hide away in their mountain strongholds in the east… They say the war is between the Eldar and Morgoth and does not concern them! Few of the Nandor and Avari will join us. Master Olorin, this will be a long war… how can we survive when we are all in disarray?” Mornel asked aloud. The fierce squabbles between the Sindar and Noldor lords were common knowledge in camp. Ingwion and Cirdan were hard-pressed to keep the peace.

“Only the All-father knows,” the Maia shrugged. 

* * *

Ingwion’s daughters cautiously crept through the undergrowth. They had travelled this way before more than once with their guide. Today something was different. The elves could not quite put their fingers on it yet. Their Nando guide motioned for them to halt. It was too silent. Even the trees were quiet. The taint of the Shadow had been growing stronger despite the wards his people set about their hamlet. He shimmied up a tree to better look out for any danger. He found it. The last thing he saw was a pair of glowing red eyes.

There was no warning. The twins shrieked as something came crashing down through the branches – the dried-out husk of what had once been an elf.

“Run!” their Vanyar bodyguards yelled and raised their spears as the bat-winged monstrosity swooped down on them. They did not have time to react to the orcs that burst out of the shadows.

* * *

 

She prayed she was wrong but there was no mistaking the metallic tang in the air and the unearthly quiet. They had been on patrol for two days now and encountered no sign of orcs or other minions of Morgoth. There was not even the sensation of being secretly observed as they enter the domain of the Nandor.

“Vampire,” Lady Galadriel plucked at her lord’s sleeve. Galadriel had learnt much from Queen Melian and her skills were invaluable when it came to detecting the creatures of Morgoth. _So far west?_ _Don’t these beasts cower in the shadows of their master’s fortress?_ Celeborn queried with a raised eyebrow. _Trust me on this. Perhaps the craven coward Morgoth is finally making his move._ Galadriel frowned and pinched his arm. So far their warriors had only needed to deal with orcs. Celeborn was part of the hunting party assembled when the werewolf Carcharoth broke through Melian’s Girdle. None of them had actually encountered a vampire before. To overcome a vampire would be a test of his wife’s prowess in the Songs of Power.

Now the others were sensing the danger approaching and panic threatened to overwhelm them. _When they close in for the kill, they paralyze their prey with fear…_ She had to snap them out of it. She willed them to be calm as she shed her armour as quietly as she could. She needed to be light for her plan to work.  

“Leave now!” Galadriel commanded as the stench of stale blood drew closer. There was no room for argument. Celeborn nodded grimly and motioned for the others to follow him. Their presence would only distract his wife. Galadriel steadied her breathing. She could hear the wings now as the creature homed in on the rapidly-beating hearts of the retreating elves. She placed herself quietly in its path and crouched low in the grass. Her breathing and heartbeat almost too low to be detected, she waited.

“Going somewhere?” Galadriel laughed as she leapt upwards and drove her blade into the monster’s throat. The heady song of battle was coursing through her blood. With the element of surprise lost, there was no time for it to cast any glamour on the elf. It shrieked and tried to flee but the elleth held on fast. Grimly, she sawed her blade through gristle and leathery flesh. Black blood splattered everywhere. Galadriel cursed. Her blade was stuck. Talons dug into her side as the creature tried to fly off. She could not force it to land despite half-sawing off its head.

“Allow me,” Celeborn had turned back and saw the danger his wife was in. With his sword, he leapt up and sheared off one of the vampire’s wings. Crippled, it crashed on the ground. Galadriel yanked her blade free and lopped off the vampire’s head just as sounds of nearby fighting reached them. _Orcs!_

Celeborn dragged the corpse off his wife and helped her to her feet. He winced at the sight of the ragged tear in her side.

“Don’t just gawk. Pass me the red vial from my bag. It will slow the bleeding,” Galadriel instructed through gritted teeth as she clutched the wound to slow the blood.

With the demise of the vampire, dealing with the orcs was easy. It was witnessing the destruction wrought on the little hamlet they stumbled across which was hard to stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could not resist tossing in some warrior action from Lady Galadriel. Lord Celeborn was a vassal of Elu Thingol while in Doriath and I imagine he would have joined in the hunt of Carcharoth with his king.


	13. A Great Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A great sorrow befalls Ingwion and the Host. Mornel questions if they are ready for war.

“Merciful Mandos…” Celeborn gasped. One of the younger warriors turned and retched violently. In deathly silence, Galadriel took in the razed Nandor hamlet. They had encountered the aftermaths of orc-raids before. The slaughter of the defenders and enslavement of any survivors for the pits of Angband was nothing new. Elflings too young to survive the arduous trek to Angband were often fed live to the wargs. This time their little bodies were impaled on the timbers of what once had been their homes. Orc captains had been known to give orders to slay their prisoners if pursued but these killings had occurred well before their arrival. The air was heavy with blood and smouldering wood. It had been too damp for the fire to burn properly.

“Look for survivors… and get them down,” Celeborn shouted. His men snapped out of their stunned horror and got to work. Galadriel pushed over the nearest pole so that she could ease the tiny body off it. Celeborn looked away from the tiny corpses and saw the shriveled husk of one of the vampire’s victims. The beads in his braids marked him as one of the community’s elders. More mutilated corpses littered the bases of the trees, ellyn and ellyth alike. It had been a massacre. No prisoners had been taken this time.

Celeborn had heard tales in Thingol’s court of the dangers beyond their realm. Once as an elfling, he had hid behind a tapestry in the throne-room as his kinsman questioned a thrall who had escaped from Angband. The former thrall spoke of how the enslaved were forced to toil in the mine-pits. Captured ellyth were used to breed more orcs for the armies through foul enchantments cast by Sauron. Young Celeborn had nightmares afterwards. His own nana and ada had vanished during the trek westwards to join their kin in Doriath. Noldor captives were said to be especially prized for their knowledge of Valinorean smithwork and their inane hardiness as a result of having grown up in the Light of the Trees.

His wife was cradling the smallest of the elflings, tears running down her cheeks. The others had been laid out on the ground. They would be buried with their kin. Already the Sindar were digging a common grave for the bodies in the clearing and seeking out rocks for a cairn. In frustration, Celeborn kicked the carcass of a dead warg. There was a glint of steel under the beast, half-buried in the mud.

“Milord, this is Valinorean in make,” a warrior exclaimed as he pointed at the dagger which probably killed the beast. The half-eaten remains of an elf lay in the mud under the beast’s bulk. The Vanya warrior had avenged himself before succumbing to his wounds, mortally wounding the warg. 

“Milady, come…” a young warrior peering into one of the few willow and mud-brick huts in the hamlet beckoned to Galadriel. “There are survivors and I fear they are in dire need of your aid.” Such a hut would have been used for storing of firewood or game over winter.

Galadriel laid down the elfling she had been cradling as gently as she could before hastening over. The rancid stench hit her first – blood, puke, piss, and feces. Underlying it was a muskier odor which made Galadriel’s stomach turn. The sprawled limbs and half-nude bodies confirmed her fears. They had not spared any of the ellyth for breeding. One of the ellyth whimpered softly. Another twitched her leg. Galadriel undid her cloak. She motioned for her husband to do the same and hand her his cloak.

“Ready stretchers,” Galadriel commanded before she entered the hut to treat the two survivors. The ellyth had been beaten and raped. Only two clung stubbornly to life but their light was fast fading. The ellyth’s hands were clasped together, and had been since they had crawled towards each other after their captives left them among the dead and dying. If they could get them to the Havens, perhaps the Maiar could…

“Isilmire?” Galadriel gasped in horror as she wiped the blood and gore from one of the battered faces after covering the poor elleth’s nakedness. The other one could only be Lomire.

* * *

 

The knife slipped in Mornel’s grasp and scored a red gash across her palm. She bit back a very unladylike curse.  Her nephew glanced up from his work with a bemused grin. He had just finished fitting Fearocco with a set of new shoes and was putting the finishing touches to a shield. Fearocco nickered and nipped at Mornel’s hair. She had been whittling some wooden animals for Elros’ young Edain friends. There was a pair of wooden horses for the twins despite declarations that they were too old for such toys. At fifteen, an Adan was considered nearly grown. At twenty, many would be parents themselves. Elros decided by the Edain reckoning, they were adults and should be treated thus. He backtracked when Mornel suggested that he was old enough to attend the dreary war council meetings with Gil-galad and Arafinwe.

Mornel absently dabbed at the wound with a handkerchief. It was a clean slice, but she needed to clean it of any wood shavings. A simple bandage should suffice but there was no way she would be playing her harp tonight. The camp seemed to be busier than usual – perhaps some new refugees had arrived or a patrol returned with wounded.

“Elros? Elrond?” Mornel recognized the sulky elflings approaching the forge.

“They chased us out!” Elros huffed. “And Elrond just wanted to help…”

“Who?” Mornel asked.

“The healers! We just wanted to see the elves Aunt Galadriel brought back… ” Elrond explained.

“We promised not to get in the way…” Elros whined.

“The last time you promised that you sat on my injured leg…” Elrond added.  “Isn’t that right, Aunt Galadriel?”

Galadriel was at the elflings’ heels, looking pale and wan. As the only elleth in the troop, it had fallen to her to clean and treat the wounds, in particular the horrific injuries done to her cousins’ privy parts. She had to use her Songs of Power to sustain the patients on the difficult trek back to the Havens but it was not enough to heal them. Master Olorin had taken over the task of caring for them but he was reluctant to promise anything. Their hurts were simply too great. Celeborn had gone to seek out their father.

“It’s them – Ingwion’s daughters, isn’t it?” Mornel’s heart sank. Her cousin grimly nodded.

“Celebrimbor, please take the boys out on Fearocco – he would like a little exercise…” Mornel said. The elflings clambered onto her horse as her nephew cautiously took hold of his bridle to lead him to the little patch of grass on the outskirts of the camp. _Some things were not meant for elflings to hear._

Prince Ingwion was already in the healing tent when Mornel reached it. Olorin was nowhere in sight. The twins were swaddled in bandages and only their pale faces and clasped hands were visible. They were lying in cots side-by-side. Already some of the bandages were turning dark with blood. The healers had done all they could since Galadriel had them transported to the camp on a single bier for the pair had refused to be parted. Her cousin had described the orc attack on the Nandor hamlet and finding her friends. Now they could only make the pair comfortable while their fear parted company with their hroar.

“Ingwion, I’m sorry…” Mornel murmured. “I should have…” _She should have gone with them, should have insisted despite her promise to her uncle and the sensitivities of the Nandor about outsiders…_

“They’re my children. I should have forbidden them,” Ingwion muttered as he stroked the cheek of one of his daughters. “I should have insisted they remain with their amme…”

“Ingwion, Mornel, have a drink…” Olorin called out as he entered the tent with a streaming tea-kettle and cups. “Chamomile to ease the heart…”

“Is there nothing any of your colleagues could do for my daughters?” Ingwion snapped. “Perhaps Queen Earwen could spare a ship to send them back to Valinor…”

“Sometimes healing could only found in Mandos for the Firstborn,” Olorin shook his head sadly. “The journey back would be too arduous for them…”

Ingwion remained by his daughters’ bedsides long into the night. Mornel was left alone to deal with the throng of concerned elves that came by. Arafinwe came by to send regards from Lords Oropher and Amdir, whose Silvan peoples had experienced orc-raids beyond the Girdle.

Many times the healers came to change the poultices and bandages or pour sips of herbal tinctures or thin broth down the pair’s throats. The light in their eyes was rapidly fading as the hours passed. Often they would cry out and struggle in the throes of some nightmare. Gil-galad sent Gildor to play soothing songs for the patients since Mornel’s injury made her fingers clumsy on her harp strings.

When Arien passed the Gates of Morning in the east, the fear of Isilmire and Lomire finally flew across the sea to the Halls of Mandos.

* * *

 

“Mornel, you must rest too,” Arafinwe insisted as his niece split yet another log for the funeral pyre. Exhausted with grief, Ingwion had collapsed and lay in the healing tent with Olorin in attendance. Mornel had assisted the ellyth in washing and preparing the bodies. The ground about the camp was sandy and ill-suited for digging. A pyre was needed. Elves gathered driftwood and kindling along the shore. Ingwion’s daughters were well-liked in the camp. When Celebrimbor offered his stash of logs from the forge for the pyre, Mornel rolled up her sleeves and started splitting log after log. She had been working for hours. Her arms ached but she could not, would not stop. Her nephew had come and gone after she rebuffed his offer to take over the chore from her.

“Enough!” Arafinwe commanded and seized hold of his niece’s arm as she lifted the axe up. The weary muscles of her arm gave then and the axe clattered onto the sand just inches from their feet.

“It shouldn’t have been them, uncle… Why?” Mornel sobbed as the floodgates gave in a torrent of tears.

“Why indeed… Come with me now. There is more than enough wood for the pyre and you are needed elsewhere,” her uncle urged. He had been drawn from his tent by a concerned Celebrimbor – or rather, the commotion caused by Celebrimbor trying to get past the Sindar guards posted before his tent. The stigma of being of Feanor’s blood plagued his grandnephew even though he had repudiated the deeds of his elders.

“They will be re-embodied in Lorien once they are healed, right?” Mornel asked, sounding so much like an elfling. Arafinwe kissed her on the brow.

“Of course…”

“If you are just going to sit about crying, you should have remained in Aman!” Galadriel scowled as she stepped out of the tent she shared with her lord. She was dressed in armour as if going on another patrol.

“Artanis…” Arafinwe warned. Mornel sniffled and wiped away her tears.

“Do you wish to join me in hunting down some orcs and killing them so hard Morgoth will feel it?”

“I doubt Morgoth will feel the loss of a few dozen orcs…” Celeborn pointed out as he stood by the tent with his arms folded. He was clad in his formal robes. “At least stay for the funeral with Ithil’s rise,” he coaxed. Walking towards his lady-wife, he wrapped his arms around her waist and steered her back towards the tent. His eyes met Arafinwe’s and his law-father gave him a curt nod of thanks. Galadriel was in no state to hunt orcs yet.

* * *

 

“Where do Elves go when they die? Where is Mandos? What’s it like?” Elrond asked. No doubt Celebrimbor had broken the news of the twins’ death to the elflings. Elrond had grown close to the sisters during his time in the healing tent.

“Cousin Brim said not all elves end up there… Ada Maglor and Ada Maedhros wouldn’t because of that stupid Oath they swore…” Elros interjected. The twins often shunned Gil-galad’s court for Mornel’s company. Perhaps they were tired of being fussed over as princes and heirs of the great Earendil. Or perhaps the protocols tired them. Mornel treated them as she would any other elfling back in Formenos. Voronwe teased her that she was turning into a proper mother hen with two elflings following her about the healing tents.

“Celebrimbor is mistaken,” Mornel replied.

“They say it is like a dungeon for the Noldor. They stay there forever…”

“Where do the fear of the Edain go? What lies beyond the circles of Arda? We asked Lord Eonwe and Master Olorin but they don’t know…”

“Where do orcs go? Do they even have fear?”

The twins were full of questions and Mornel was kept busy trying to answer them the best she could.

“I think it will be a great adventure finding out what is beyond Arda...” Elros exclaimed. “Think about it – Beren and Luthien would be there, and many, many Edain… I’ll ask Beren about the wolf!” He tried to leap onto a table, overbalanced and almost fell into a bubbling cauldron nearby.

“Just try not to go there or to Mandos that soon, little one!” Mornel grabbed her young charge before he could scald himself badly. The twins were a handful indeed.

“Does it still hurt?” Elrond asked as blood started seeping through the bandage on her palm. She had torn open her wound.

“Just a bit…” Mornel smiled. It hurt a lot less than her heart. Ingwion must be feeling worse. The twins were fumbling about a basket of fresh bandages and arguing about which ointments to use on Aunt Mornel’s poor hand. A healer elf peered into the tent at the racket. She asked Mornel if there was any more willow bark. Several Edain children had taken ill with a fever. Mornel inquired if she knew of any herbs which could ease Ingwion’s grief. The prince was not bearing up well under the weight of his sorrow. He had not spoken or left his tent since the funeral. His attendant confided in Mornel that he had not eaten or rested much in days. Arafinwe now attended the war council without his cousin.

Soon the armies of the Valar would march over the burnt plains for Angband. _Would Ingwion rally in time? Or would the duty of leading the Vanyar fall on her uncle’s shoulders?_ Mornel did not know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ingwion’s daughters are dead. Elrond and Elros are starting to feel the pull of their Edain heritage.


	14. Refugees from Amon Ereb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amon Ereb falls and the Feanorions seek refuge at the Havens.

The war preparations seemingly stalled without Ingwion’s guidance despite Arafinwe’s best efforts. The Sindar simply refused to acknowledge his authority. Lord Cirdan tried to mediate the best he could from the Isle of Balar while Gil-galad found excuses to absent himself from the tedious discussions. More refugees – survivors from orc raids or warg attacks – limped into the camp with each passing day. Galadriel chafed at her father’s orders for her to stop joining her husband on the patrols after the deaths of Ingwion’s daughters.

“I am not an elfling!” her cousin had yelled and stormed off with her husband close at her heels. Even though she was a seasoned warrior in her own right, there were still times when she acted like a petulant child before her father. Her uncle would only sigh, rub his temples, and murmur under his breath about spoiling her as a child on account of her being the youngest and fairest of his offspring.   

* * *

Her brothers in Amon Ereb were never far from Mornel’s mind. Finrod had warned her about Maedhros before she left Valinor. He had been changed much by the tortures of Angband, Finrod had warned, and not just physically. However, she was still startled by how much her brother’s mental state had deteriorated. Maglor seemed to be holding it together, just barely. If Morgoth’s forces were to overrun the last stronghold of the Feanorions, would her brothers stand their ground to the last elf? Or would they flee for the Havens and safety?

Celebrimbor would only shrug if asked of his uncles. He had broken off his ties with them the day he chose to remain behind in Nargothrond. Mornel went to his forge to see if he had any news of them. She was not surprised to find he had company. Gildor Inglorion and Legolas were often in Celebrimbor’s forge while their lords attended council. An easy comradeship of sorts had sprung up between the ellyn during their sojourn in Amon Ereb. They soon fell into a discussion on dragons.

“King Fingon drove back the beast Glaurung…” Celebrimbor did not pause in his work and the regular sounds of his hammer upon the anvil punctuated the conversation.

“He was but a baby during the Dagor Bragollach. He led the orc-host to Nargothrond… They said he enchanted Turin Turambar,” Gildor Inglorion said quietly. The loss of fair Nargothrond grieved him. He had left the city well before the arrival of Turin. It was simply not the same without Lord Finrod and he had sought refuge with Lord Cirdan’s people. Gildor simply had no stomach for the political struggles which followed Finrod’s demise. Orodreth was too easily led, even after the Feanorions had been driven from the city. Often he would tell Mornel of the glory days of Nargothrond under King Finrod Felagund. He was much delighted for his foster-father when Mornel informed him of Finrod’s return from Mandos and his marriage to his beloved Amarie. 

“By Iluvatar’s blessing, he is dead by the sword of Turin. We can only hope none of his kin share his powers of enchantment. Some of those who fled Gondolin claimed to have seen dragons with wings… What say you of this, Legolas?” Mornel asked.

“Aye, we saw legions of orcs, balrogs and fire-drakes, some with wings. Methinks a fire-drake is a formidable foe for any elf without it having the power of flight,” Legolas smiled grimly. “They seemed too heavy for flight but we weren’t waiting to find out. The stone walls themselves burned, my lady… And the fairest city in Beleriand was lost…”

“I bet it was no match for Tirion,” Gildor quipped.

“What do you know of beautiful cities, cave-dweller?” Legolas retorted. They exchanged friendly banter on the merits of their respective hidden cities.

“Your king built a huge bridge… kind of defeats that hidden realm bit, doesn’t it?”

“Bad advice taken by Orodreth. Your king simply copied everything from Tirion. At least Lord Finrod’s city was an original…”

“Someday I would go see Tirion for myself… Lord Galdor is weary and will sail West if the Valar allows him, I will sail with him,” Legolas murmured wistfully. “Do you suppose my family would be released from Mandos when I sail?”

“Try to survive this war first, my friend – or you might meet them in Mandos. For me, I will stay with my liege Gil-galad. Gil-galad has no intention of leaving…”

“From the ashes of Gondolin a star of hope rose,” Celebrimbor murmured as he glanced up into the night sky where the Silmaril shone. A commotion some distance off drew their attention. Legolas, who was the swiftest to rise, hastened to see what was causing it. He soon returned with a grim look on his face.

“The last stronghold of the Feanorions has fallen. Refugees from Amon Ereb seek succour at the gates. Among them are the last sons of Feanor. Wait, where are you going?” Legolas exclaimed as Mornel ran past him in the direction of the gate. Galadriel scowled as she stood at the barred gate. Her warriors held their spears at the ready. The refugees milled about in confusion. Many were wounded and weary, having trekked the distance from Amon Ereb with scarcely food or rest.  

“Mercy, please!” an elleth pleaded. She thrust a ragged bundle out before her. Mornel realized it was a very young elfling. For a moment, she thought her cousin might relent and throw open the gates to the Havens. However, Galadriel’s lips tightened when a beleaguered Maedhros limped to the front of the crowd. He was leading a sorry-looking nag over which a dark-haired elf was slumped. His sword hung idly at his belt.

“We come in peace, seeking sanctuary!” the Feanorion yelled.

“The last time you came with swords and slaughter!” someone retorted. Stones and clods of mud flew, forcing Maedhros to shield himself with his stump.

“Water-skins! And lembas!” Mornel collared a passing servant. “Let the wounded and elflings in, Galadriel, for mercy’s sake!”

“I refuse to have them in the Havens and I am sure I am not the only one,” Galadriel pointed at Maedhros. A murmur of agreement surged through the elves manning the perimeter and the onlookers. Still, the servant returned with several water-skins and lembas. Mornel threw them over the gate to the refugees. Seemly chastised, several elves followed her example. Soon the elflings were nibbling on lembas and water was offered to the wounded to sip.

Galadriel reluctantly opened the gates to admit the refugees. However, when Maedhros tried to enter with the wounded elf, she blocked his way.

“Stand aside, cousin!”

“We will not have you or your brother among us!”

Maedhros let the reins fall from his hand and made a move as if to reach for his sword. The guards trained their arrows on him and drew their bows. Mornel gasped at the sight. Any rash moves would bring death on her brother and perhaps her cousin too.

“N-no…” the stricken elf on the nag moaned and reached out a bloodied hand to Maedhros’ shoulder. The wounded elf was Maglor. The move seemed to calm the redhead and he allowed his hand to fall limply to his side.

“Artanis! Let them in!” Arafinwe yelled as he strode towards the gate with half the war council in tow. Ingwion followed close behind his cousin. He had hurriedly dressed and his hair was tousled as if he had been just roused from his reverie. Gil-galad was grinning with more levity than could be expected in such circumstances.

“Don’t worry, my lady. Your uncle will let them in…” he patted Mornel on the shoulder as he passed her.

“Ada! They are Feanorions!”

“They are the sons of my brother and I understand at least one of them is gravely wounded. Would you condemn them to death by leaving them to the orcs? We are not Kinslayers, my daughter…” Arafinwe placed his hands on Galadriel’s shoulders as she fumed.

“I agree fully with my cousin in this. We need not have any divisions between the Eldar in this time of trial,” Ingwion coughed. “I suggest we accept the Feanorions into our midst and stand united against a greater foe.”

“Who’s to say we will not be murdered in our beds?” Lord Oropher protested. “Thrice they have drawn sword on their fellow…”

“If you wish to continue this quarrel, Sinda, I will gladly do so after my brother’s wounds are seen to!” Maedhros bellowed.

“There will be no quarrel in the Havens!” Ingwion interjected. “To address Lord Oropher’s concerns, I will set a guard on Maedhros’ tent. Now, let them pass!”

“Hand over your arms, Lord Maedhros,” Gil-galad added as the two Feanorions entered the Havens with the spear-points of Galadriel’s warriors pointing at them. With much grumbling, the redhead undid his sword belt and his blade clattered onto the gravel. Healer elves hastened forward to help Maglor from the pony. Dirty bandages bound his chest and midsection.

“Ada Maglor!” Two elflings ran forward. Elrond and Elros followed until they reached the healing tent. One of the healers firmly led them both away so that they might work on their patient in peace. The elflings were officially wards of Cirdan but they shared a tent with Gil-galad for now. They had tried living with Celebrimbor in the forge but their pranks drove him to distraction. Galadriel declined to house them citing her desire for privacy. As her uncle’s herald, Mornel’s tent was too small to house two rambunctious elflings.

“Brother, you are wounded too…” Mornel noticed blood soaking through the shoulder of her eldest brother’s tunic. She grabbed him by the elbow before he could follow Ingwion’s guards.

“Leave me be, it’s just a scratch…”

“A deep scratch to bleed so much…”

“Maedhros, your sister is right. Allow her to tend to you in my tent. There is much we have to speak about.” Arafinwe could see his nephew was no longer the handsome prince he recalled. He was scarred so much from his ordeals in Angband as the Dark Foe’s prisoner that he was a stranger to his uncle. 

“Indeed, much has happened since you turned back on the edge of the Ice, so they say…” Maedhros’ voice was icy. Ingwion’s guards halted and waited for their charge. Mornel lifted the cloak off Maedhros’ shoulder to expose the wounds. The flesh exposed through the ripped tunic was raw and angry.

“These look like the marks of warg claws… They must be cleaned out. I will bring water and ointments to uncle’s tent…” Mornel murmured.

* * *

 

Apart from the wound to his shoulder, there were numerous other injuries which were already showing signs of infection or poison. Mornel washed out and applied ointment on her brother’s wounds as her uncle questioned him about Amon Ereb’s fall and his flight. Maedhros’ replies were curt and he often let a question pass without answering. Arafinwe was a patient elf but even his patience had a limit. Mornel sent a guard for some refreshments so that the pair could have a chance to cool their tempers. Her brother was not making things easier for himself.

It was late into the night and Mornel expected the twins to be abed. It was a surprise when the refreshments were brought by a pair of bleary-eyed elflings and Celebrimbor.

“They insisted, Aunt,” Celebrimbor shrugged when Mornel raised a questioning eyebrow. Rubbing their eyes, Elros and Elrond tottered over to Maedhros, who almost unconsciously lifted Elros up to sit on his lap. Elrond chose to remain standing and hold onto his stump.

“You are hurt…” Elrond whispered.

“And you two should be in reverie like good elflings…”

“Are not elflings…” Elros yawned and snuggled against Maedhros’ chest, careful to avoid the freshly bandaged wounds. Maedhros laughed and the tension seemed to melt from him. He cradled Elros with his arm as the elfling dozed off. Elrond sat down on the rugs at their feet. He rested his head against Maedhros’ thigh and wrapped his arms about his shin. All earlier hostility towards the King of the Noldor seemed to wash away from the redhead.

“How is Maglor?”Maedhros turned his attention to his nephew.

“The healers have patched him up and he is in a healing sleep. It will take a week or so for him to heal fully,” their nephew replied. Maedhros nodded in approval. Arafinwe cleared his throat.

“Nephew, too much has happened since the Darkening. Can I have your word that there is to be no further quarrel between you and the Sindar, Teleri, or any other of the Eldar?”

“Can you trust the word of a Kinslayer?” Maedhros asked.

“Yes, brother. We trust you,” Mornel cut in when she noticed her uncle hesitate. Arafinwe nodded, glad his niece had spoken the words he had not the certainty to speak. Mornel poured out wine for all present except the twins. It was not miruvor but it was easy enough on the palate.

“I will not bow and beg before you or the Valar,” Maedhros added grimly. “Even though we stand united against a common foe.”

Maedhros would accompany his uncle to the war council meetings despite the misgivings of the Sindar lords. Ingwion assigned guards to watch over the Feanorions and they were denied their weapons and the freedom to move unescorted within the Havens or leave. As much as they hated to admit it, the lords knew they needed the experience of the Feanorions who had fought Morgoth for the longest among the Exiled, since before the rising of the Moon and Sun. To Mornel, Maedhros maintained a façade of indifference despite of her reaching out to him. Maglor delighted in the company of his sister and the twins as he recovered from his wounds. Despite Mornel’s suggestion, the war council refused to allow Maglor to attend alongside his brother. It was not long before she understood that Maglor was to be held as a hostage for his brother’s good behaviour at the insistence of some of the Sindar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The twins have a bit of a calming effect on their Feanorion guardians. Prince ingwion is still grieving over his daughters and leaving much of the preparations for war to Arafinwe and the others. Hope to be writing the battles of the War of Wrath soon, or some serious action.


	15. Shadowy Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Host finally marches out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel really tempted to forget the entire canon about the War of Wrath and have the remaining Feanorions return home with Mornel. There is so little about the events of the War – a dogfight with a dragon, the capture of Morgoth by the Valar, the breaking of Beleriand. No specific battles at the elf-level. We don’t even know if the Feanorions and the twins fought alongside the Host of the Valar during the War. 
> 
> Also trying to refrain from putting an overly happy spin on the story or going super tragic on the characters.

Mornel spent her much of her free time with her brother Maglor. The healers had strongly advised that he keep to his bed for two weeks at least, or until the wound to his belly knit fully. The twins were frequent visitors too and Maglor enjoyed the pair’s company. Not so welcome were the armed Vanyar guards who stood constant guard about the tent. Maedhros came on occasion, escorted by two of the guards assigned to him by Ingwion. While he was glad to see his brother and the twins, he was unhappy about the arrangements and the slow pace of the War Council discussions.

“All they ever do is talk, talk, and talk! And all Uncle does is listen! We need to act now before all’s lost! The Valar are here but they are clearly not interested in doing what they should have done an Age ago instead of cowering like cowards in the…” One of the guards winced at Maedhros’ blasphemy. Maglor put a hand out to stop his brother in mid-tirade. The twins were away. Gil-galad had promised to take them to Balar to meet Cirdan.

“Forgive me, but the Valar are all wise…” the Vanya guard started his standard pious spiel, earning himself the redhead’s ire.

“They did nothing when my grandfather was slain. They allowed Morgoth to roam free while threatening the Noldor with the Doom. Only _dear_ Uncle Arafinwe turned back like their whipped cur…” Maedhros seized the hapless guard by his collar. He towered over the ellon and easily lifted him off his feet with his arm. Immediately, his colleague pointed his spear at the Feanorion.

“Brother! Calm down!” Mornel pleaded. The fierce light in his eyes disturbed her. She tried to put herself between the spear and her brother. Maglor tried to rise from his bed, and fell back with a cry of pain. His brother’s voice seemed to snap Maedhros out of his fit. He let the guard down, walked over to Maglor’s cot, and sat down on the edge. There was an audible sigh of relief as the guards lowered their spears.

“Kano, are you in pain?” Maedhros asked.

“No, Nelyo, the stitches just caught…” Maglor smiled. Mornel came over to inspect the bandages on Maglor’s abdomen. There was thankfully no sign of blood on them.

“I am staying.”

“No, they will expect you at the council tomorrow. I will stay,” Mornel volunteered. Maedhros heard her. He looked her straight in the eyes.

“The last alliance I was part of fell apart. I know I am not welcome at this council,” he gave a dry laugh. “Uncle believes I need to be guarded like a prisoner!”

“They are also there to guard you from any vengeance from Sindar or Teleri. Uncle values your experience…” Mornel added.

“He can look to his daughter. Artanis hates us and for good reason…” Maedhros shook his head before rising to his feet. He motioned to the guards that he would like to leave.

“Why does Galadriel…” Maedhros had already left the tent and did not reply.

“The second Kinslaying cost Galadriel her home in Beleriand and many of her friends, among them her foster daughter Nimloth, niece of Celeborn and wife of Dior,” Maglor explained. “I heard from Gildor that Sindar survivors turned her away from the Havens after the Kinslaying for her Noldor blood, forcing her and her husband to seek shelter on Balar. It was not until Gondolin fell five years later and her survivors came here that she was allowed to set foot here to meet with her kinswoman Idril. Even then she was not allowed to meet Nimloth’s daughter for many more years.”

“I will speak with her or attend War Council with uncle and Maedhros. I am his herald after all,” Mornel decided.   

“No, stay away from them – Uncle Ara and Galadriel, our brother too… You have no part in this mess… should have remained in Valinor with Amme,” Maglor whispered hoarsely. “They have no right to drag you into this…”

“I am Uncle’s herald and kinswoman to you and our cousin Galadriel. I do have a part in this war and it is my choice. If you excuse me, I need to see to my horse. I believe he needs new shoes,” Mornel retorted. She hurried from the tent before her brother could see the tears of frustration and anger in her eyes. _Why did her brother doubt her even now? It was her decision to follow the Host to Beleriand. She was no child to follow blindly._

* * *

Months passed before the council finally reached some form of consensus. The Host was at long last ready to march against Morgoth. Morgoth’s minions had not been idle during this time. Nandor and Avari refugees came to the Havens, bringing with them tales of terror about orc raids and spiders driven from their hiding places by even darker forces. One horribly burned elleth spoke of a dragon in her delirium before perishing of her wounds. Galadriel’s patrols ran into many such raiding parties. Each attack struck ever closer to the Havens and the coast.

“They are mere scouts,” Maedhros snorted in disdain. “Believe me when I say that there are far worse in the pits of Angband.”

“Vampires? Balrogs? Werewolves?” Oropher smirked as his squire assisted him with his armour. “Perhaps a dragon or two?” The young ellon chortled along with his lord. Mornel recalled Oropher’s son, Thranduil, was too young to assist his father as a squire. The elfling had spent a week recovering in the healing tents from a nasty dose of orc poison after mishandling an orc arrowhead a warrior had brought back from a patrol.

“If we are lucky,” Arafinwe nodded as he checked his horse’s bridle.

“Beware Morgoth’s right hand, Sauron. Many of these creatures are his work,” Maedhros added as he tested the weight of a new sword. The armies were ready to march. Mornel would ride with her uncle and the main body of the Host. Her brothers were granted charge of a small unit of their Feanorian warriors. They would lead the charge across the burnt fields where so many had fallen in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Oropher and Amdir would lead their Sindar warriors towards the southeast in a flanking move. Celeborn and Galadriel would lead another unit of seasoned warriors through forests of the east.

Lord Cirdan and Lord Ulmo would remain along the coast, along with the Telerin armada. Despite Gil-galad’s pleas, the young high king of the Noldor was all but ordered by his elders to remain in Balar’s citadel in their absence. Already there were whispers about Gil-galad trying to sneak on board a Telerin ship to leave the island and join the Host disguised as a lowly spear-elf. The peredhil twins were also ordered by Cirdan and their Feanorion guardians alike to remain in the safety of the Havens with the other elflings, including the son of Lord Oropher.

“We are grown-ups!” Elros had protested vehemently. “The Edain consider their boys men by the time they are twenty and we are now nearing thirty!”

No one was amused when the twins went missing a few days before the Host’s scheduled departure from the Havens. Olorin eventually found them in the ranks of their Edain allies. The pair had signed up to fight alongside the Edain and impressed their chieftains with their prowess with the spear and sword. Maedhros had trained them well in the warrior arts. For the sake of keeping the peace, the council agreed that the twins would remain with the Edain for now.   

* * *

The peaks of Thangorodrim loomed before her across the charred plains. The air was noxious with a foul miasma. Mornel looked about her. She was standing alone amidst the aftermath of a great battle. Grey shades hovered silently. _A dream?_

 _Turn back!_ The shades urged. _The Black Foe is too strong… You cannot defeat him…_ The air was heavy with despair.

“No, we have the Valar’s aid. Lord Tulkas defeated Morgoth and Lord Aule bound him in chains once, before the Moon and Sun,” Mornel replied, clenching her fists. “My atto’s jewels burned him. Thorondor witnessed my uncle Nolofinwe wound him in single combat… My brothers, cousins, and many more stood up against him and did not break even in the direst circumstances. We shall prevail!”

The shades dispersed in the face of the fierce rage which threatened to overwhelm her. White-hot light blazed across the open plain. With a start, Mornel awoke from reverie. The camp was in an uproar. Various elves and men were crying out in their sleep. Someone had been meddling in their dreams. _Morgoth or one of his minions perhaps?_

“It’s a trick! Try to wake them up!” she called out. As she staggered out from her tent, she noticed the Maiar who had travelled with them were hurrying from tent to tent. Elros and Elrond sprinted past in their nightshirts, holding a bucket of water between them. A yell from the Edain tents announced that the pair had dumped the contents over a particularly deep sleeper. Drowsy elves and men roused by the Maiar staggered out of their tents. Mornel hastened to her uncle’s tent. Arafinwe had been roused from his reverie by Gildor, who ha been standing guard, but he was in a fair state of distress. Gildor nodded to Mornel before running out to find a Maia.

“Mornel, tell them we must turn back… sail back to Valinor” the Noldoran exclaimed. “We cannot win. Many will perish…”

“Eru Illuvatar will see to the fear of our Edain allies and Lord Namo the fear of our fallen warriors,” Mornel grabbed her uncle’s elbow and reassured him. “Why does the Black Foe trouble us with nightmares now instead of riding out to meet the might of the Valar as he did Uncle Nolo? Does he expect us to stand before the Gates of Angband and yell insults at him? This is not foresight but a trap to dishearten us…”

Arafinwe calmed down at her reasoning. “You are right, Mornel. But the men would be quite affected by such foul visions…”

“Indeed, uncle. Perhaps Lord Irmo’s Maiar would send them dreams to give them heart,” Mornel replied. Gildor had returned with a pot of calming tea for the king, which Mornel poured out for her uncle.

An ear-splitting scream drew their attention. Hastening out of the tent, they caught sight of Maedhros cursing Morgoth in a blind rage as Maglor tried to restrain him. He swung his sword about him in a wild circle. His eyes were unseeing as if he were still trapped in his nightmares. Finally, a brave ellon dove past the swinging blade and punched Maedhros hard in the middle, forcing him to bend over and let go of his weapon. Maglor wrapped his arms around his brother and started singing. The soothing melody seemed to calm Maedhros down considerably and his eyes fluttered into awareness. The ellon who had disarmed him sat on the ground nearby, panting.

Maedhros scowled at him. “Gil-galad, I thought they ordered you to stay on Balar!” The ellon lowered his hood with a sigh.

“I cannot remain behind in the citadel while my people ride into battle.”

“How did you convince the Teleri or Lord Cirdan to take you across?” Arafinwe asked. Gil-galad had slain orcs in skirmishes but he was unaccustomed to the large battles they would be expecting.

“I borrowed a rowboat and the twins met me on shore. I have been riding with the Edain… Will you order me to ride back now that we have come so far?” Gil-galad challenged. Master Olorin had told Mornel and the council about the twins joining the Edain war party but not Gil-galad. _Had Gil-galad somehow eluded the Maia’s notice, or had he been helped in the deception? Or had Olorin conveniently omitted that little fact?_  

“Let the sorry little whelp stay,” Maedhros growled as he rubbed his abdomen. “He can look out for the twins with the Edain… and it would be the last place the enemy would expect our high king to be, riding with the Secondborn.” Gil-galad only smiled grimly. All around them, rattled nerves were being settled. Mornel noticed a rather worried Olorin walking about the tents. He was soon joined by Eonwe and both vanished into the night air. They were not troubled by visions of despair in the following nights, until they came to the very edge of the charred wasteland of the north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine they are approaching but not yet within sight of Thangorodrim when they had the bad dreams. Someone in Angband is trying to launch a psy-ops attack on the Host but the Valar would be onto it now and possibly set up some sort of ward about their camp to prevent a further attack.


	16. Into Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornel and the Host encounter Morgoth's forces on the field of battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one knows exactly why Galadriel and Celeborn left for Balar instead of staying with the other survivors of the Second Kinslaying. Maglor’s explanation should only be taken as hearsay. It was second or possibly third-hand info by the time it reached Gildor.

Galadriel snapped out of her reverie. She could sense her spouse’s distress. She lay awake for a moment, listening to his fidgeting before shaking him awake. She could have slipped into his dreams but she had promised him never to use her powers on him thus. Celeborn gasped as he awoke. The guard outside their tent tapped lightly on the flap and asked if all was well. Galadriel quietly asked for some water for her lord. She rubbed Celeborn’s back and murmured soothing words into his ear.

“I dreamt of them again… the twins…” Celeborn explained. Galadriel nodded patiently.

They had searched hard and long for the twin sons of his niece Nimloth. She had tried to locate them but her scrying bowl had failed her. Her husband blamed himself for losing them. Somehow in the chaos they had managed to break away from the gaggle of a few dozen terrified elflings the grown-ups were leading to safety. Galadriel recalled having to take Elwing from her nurse’s arms after the elleth received a stray arrow in the back. A youngster was hysterical and had actually bit Celeborn hard enough to draw blood before his elder brothers managed to calm him down. No one noticed the princes were gone until news reached them of the pair’s capture by the Feanorians. For a while they had hoped for a message from her cousin, perhaps an exchange for the Silmaril. None came. It was much later that a wounded Feanorian warrior captured by Amdir told of how Celegorm’s warriors had abandoned the pair in the woods. Although Maedhros had searched for the boys, he too had failed to find them.

Galadriel thanked the ellon who returned with the water she had requested. Celeborn had been troubled by the unknown fate of his grandnephews for a long while after the Second Kinslaying, Galadriel had taken her spouse to Balar to seek Lord Cirdan’s aid. The sound of the waves around the Isle of Balar seemed to be a balm not only on Celeborn’s troubled fea but on her weary one as well. Perhaps it was the work of Lord Ulmo. She had feared the dreams’ return after the Third Kinslaying. Thankfully, they did not. They had feared the same when no news came about Earendil’s sons after they were taken captive. It irked Galadriel that her cousins had chosen to keep the twins for so long despite the apparent kindness they were treated with.

“I fear we will lose Elros or Elrond… and not only in battle,” Celeborn confessed. “Though the Valar have granted the Choice to be counted among the Eldar to them, I fear that one or both of them will not take the path of their parents.” The unknown fate of Dior’s fea and that of his sons, should they have perished, was a point of much speculation among the Sindar. At least Nimloth would have her daughter to comfort her upon her rebirth in Aman.  

“I feel the same…” Galadriel admitted. The paths of the twins were hidden from her eyes. Perhaps the fates of those of the line of Luthien were not set in stone.

“Will you return with your adar to Valinor, once this is over?” Celeborn asked quietly. Galadriel leaned into him.

“No, after this war, I want to stay with you here… Create our own little kingdom and raise our children… It will be a fairer realm than any of my kinsmen’s…”

“Fairer than Doriath?”

“Perhaps… a new Doriath… I want a daughter, once there is no more war…”

“Aye, a daughter with your hair… Tell me, my love, do you see the end of this war?”

“No. it is clouded. A million futures and visions. I cannot tell which are real…” There was nothing they could do but return to their bed and seek whatever reverie they might. Somewhere to the north, her father’s army marched towards Angband’s gates.

* * *

 _So much wasted potential…_ Arafinwe reflected as he watched his surviving nephews mingling with their warriors by the campfire. Maitimo the well-formed, now scarred both in hroa and fea, perhaps for the rest of his life. Makalaure, that sensitive and gentle bard whose music was so dear to him, had long set aside his harp for the sword.  

Maitimo had been well-loved in Tirion, perhaps even more so than his temperamental and haughty father. He had inherited Finwe’s easy charm and his mother’s good sense. His continued friendship with Findekano despite his father’s disapproval spoke volumes. Perhaps if Morgoth had not interfered, their sons’ friendship might have mended the rift between Feanaro and Nolofinwe. Young Makalaure’s passion was his music and he would spend hours working on his compositions. He tutored Findarato in music and was the first to befriend his sons after they moved to Tirion. One lazy afternoon after the lessons, Makalaure had shared with his uncle his dream of moving to Alqualonde and setting up a music school with his best friend Earlindo. There was also a Telerin nis his nephew was courting and would wed before his father’s exile to Formenos. He roundly cursed the Black Foe under his breath.

* * *

 _Princess…_ Fearocco’s voice intruded into Mornel’s thoughts. Mornel fought the urge to snap back. Her steed had grown increasingly restless as they approached Angband. Instead, she crept out of her tent and took a brush to the restless horse’s flank, brushing out the dust and soot from his coat. Grass had long given way to barren ash and rock under their feet and only the hardiest of elf-horses could continue on the meagre rations of dwindling hay and oats. The dust got into their clothes, tents, and even their eyes.

As if in awe of their approach, there was no great army pouring forth from the blackened peaks. Only small units of orcs harassed their flanks. These were swiftly dispatched with hardly any fuss. The eerie lack of action on the enemy’s part disquieted Mornel and many others. It reminded Mornel of Formenos’ summer storms. These cloudbursts full of thunder and lightning were always foreshadowed by a few days of calm. Likewise, this empty battlefield before them was the calm before the storm.

 _Princess… I fear…_ the horse nudged her with his nose.

 _What? Do my ears deceive me? Fearocco, the bravest son of Nahar, afraid?_ Mornel teased. Her horse was fearless to a fault. Fearocco snorted and firmly head-butted his mistress.

_Princess. Be careful… I fear I may not be able to protect you after tomorrow…_

“Fearocco! Stop this foolish talk,” Mornel demanded. Her heart sank at his words. She hugged her horse’s neck and wept into his mane. She was suddenly scared of losing her friend in the coming battle. In an instant, she was felt she was back to being a scared little elfling. Scared she would fail everyone, her uncle, her brothers…

 _Be brave, my princess… I know you can…_ Fearocco reassured her. _Perhaps I am mistaken. Go rest now. Tomorrow will be another long day…_ Despite her friend’s words, Mornel would not rest easy for the reminder of the night. 

* * *

The sun should have been high at that hour but the foul fumes from Angband all but blotted out the light of the last fruit of Laurelin. Only a sickly light bathed the dusty plain they marched upon. The Vingilot hovered above all in her shining majesty, surrounded by the mighty Eagles of Manwe, a beacon of hope to those who marched under the Valar’s banner.

“Olorin!” Olorin turned around to find Eonwe on the deck of the Vingilot behind him.

“Methinks Morgoth has fled into the bowels of his fortress… Nothing stands against my Lord’s war-host…” Eonwe exclaimed. Olorin shrugged. Eonwe’s enthusiasm and confidence failed to catch on with him, just like with the vessel’s crew. Voronwe was catching a nap below decks. Earendil was whittling a stick to deal with the boredom of staring out at the endless landscape of ashy grey and rocks.

Earendil had a decidedly sour look on his face. His pleas to meet with his sons had gone unanswered. He was forbidden from setting foot on land and the boys were forbidden from setting foot on the Vingilot. It was as if Earendil now felt keenly what he had lost - those precious times he could have spent with his sons, seemly usurped by others, including the Feanorions, who had reared them in his absence. It would not be his hand they would recall holding as they walked along the beach – it would be Lord Cirdan’s. It would not be his voice they heard teaching them their letters, but Maglor’s. It would be Maedhros they practiced their wrestling with and hunted with as they approached manhood. He was their father by blood but many had confirmed that the twins now considered the Feanorions their family. There was too much he wanted to say to his sons which could not be conveyed through a messenger. After a brief argument with their captain regarding the ban on his setting foot on Beleriand, Eonwe left. Earendil returned to his whittling. Olorin shook his head. There was a risk that the twins might perish in the coming battle. The Choice had not been offered yet. Eonwe would have told everyone if they had chosen. _Would they be received into Lord Namo’s realm or be forced to choose their path with their last breath? Would Earendil meet his sons in Valinor someday?_

The dark peaks ahead suddenly took on a menacing aspect. Flame and death had poured out from those peaks once, rendering the northern realms of the Eldar to ruins. Great hordes of orcs had poured out, slaughtering the armies of the Eldar and their allies under the doomed Union of Maedhros. The calm now was disquieting. Eonwe had been blustering, Olorin realized. Perhaps this bravado was a cover for his colleague’s unease. He knew deep in his very core that the lands below would be awash with Eldar blood once more.

“Beware!” Thorondor swooped past with a warning screech, snapping Olorin out of his dark thoughts. Earendil was shouting out commands. Olorin cursed his own inattention as he spotted the multitude of orcs and other creatures pouring out from the rocky ravines which dotted the foot of Morgoth’s fortress. A dark form rose from the peaks of Thangorodrim and stretched its massive wings. _There was no time!_ The Maia immediately reverted to his spirit form and hastened to the Host on the field below.

* * *

Arafinwe clutched at the reins to keep himself from being thrown off as his steed reared and bucked beneath him. He struggled to calm his horse, reaching out with his mind. All he received in return was a wave of blind panic. Beside him, Ingwion was not so fortunate. The Prince of the Vanyar lost his grip and was thrown into the dust by his steed when it went mad with fear. There was a loud crack as he hit the ground headfirst. Arafinwe saw his cousin lying motionless on the ground, stunned by the fall. He fought to keep his own horse from trampling the Vanya prince. Ingwion’s horse had fled the field in sheer terror.

Atop his still-skittish steed, Arafinwe fought to maintain a clear space around the fallen prince as he called for aid from the other riders. No foot-soldier could safely walk amongst the panicking horses.  All around them, riders were losing control of their horses. Something was frightening the horses out of their minds. Something had changed in the air around them. The elves sensed it too – an unnamed terror approaching them.

Mornel clung onto her horse’s reins and turned round. She had been riding to the back to pass a message to Gil-galad and the Mannish chieftains. Fearocco was afraid, but he did not flee or rear as the other horses did. His ears twitched and he snorted. Mornel could feel the very earth rumbling under her horse’s hooves. _Above us!_ Fearocco shouted a warning into Mornel’s mind. Mornel caught a glimpse of leathery bat-wings and a serpent-like neck. A heartbeat later, a blast of flame scythed through the ranks of the Eldar and all hell erupted. The air was filled with the sickly-sweet stench of charred flesh in its wake. Fearful battle cries from orcs, elves and men alike rent the air elsewhere as the massive armies finally clashed.

“Fearocco! To the Noldoran!” Mornel commanded and dug her heels into Fearocco’s sides. The front ranks where Arafinwe and Ingwion were riding had been decimated by fire and Mornel feared the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am probably taking a lot of liberties with the War of Wrath here.


	17. Wounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornel is seriously wounded and loses a close friend. She is evacuated very much against her wishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A combination of writer’s block and work has been keeping me from posting for a while. Thank you for your patience.

The front ranks where Arafinwe and Ingwion were riding had been decimated by fire and Mornel feared the worst. To her immense relief, she caught sight of her uncle standing over a motionless Ingwion, defending him against the attacking orcs. All around her, Valinorean warriors fought to protect their fallen comrades from the surging hordes of orcs pouring from the hidden tunnels and caves around them. Atop Fearocco, Mornel drew her sword with a battle cry and plunged into the melee. Her blade felled many orcs in her path.

With a flap of its mighty wings, the dragon rose into the air and fired yet another blast of flame. It circled around and aimed straight for the Noldoran. Mornel reacted by digging her heels into Fearocco’s sides to urge him into a gallop. _Save the Noldoran! Save Uncle!_ Fearocco’s hooves closed the distance between them and the Noldoran. Fearocco reached the Noldoran’s side as the beast roared and swooped down toward them. Mornel screamed in reply and leapt from her saddle, slipping and sliding on ground slicked by orc-blood. Noticing the threat, Arafinwe shoved the last of the attacking orcs away from his cousin. Arafinwe’s steed had run off in the chaos. Only Fearocco remained near enough. Arafinwe shouldered Ingwion with his free arm but the press of their enemies about them was too thick to allow a swift escape.

 _Fearocco, take them and leave!_ Mornel flung her sword desperately at the approaching dragon but it bounced harmlessly off its scales.

The dragon let loose its deadly burst of flame. Mornel turned and ran, knowing there was no way she would get clear of the blast. Her uncle and a barely-conscious Ingwion were still floundering over the fallen horses, warriors, and orcs. _Fearocco!_ Mornel screamed silently. Ingwion stumbled and went down, Arafinwe with him. Her horse was nowhere in sight. Her uncle would be killed by the dragon’s flames too. Likewise Ingwion…

In a heartbeat, Mornel reacted by throwing herself over her uncle and friend Ingwion. Immense heat and pain washed over her for a moment and she could smell burning hair and flesh. There was a shrill neighing and the blast of flame seemed to let up a bit.

_Sorry, princess…_

_Fearocco!_ Mornel cried out in agony before the pain of her burns overtook her and she fainted.  She knew her horse and best friend was gone.

* * *

 

They had driven back the dragon, or else it was called back into the pits from which it had emerged. No one knew for sure. The orcs and Easterlings had been driven back, allowing their forces to retrieve their dead and wounded. Many brave Valinorean warriors had fallen. Many more were wounded. Legolas sat glumly outside a tent as a healer cleaned his wound from a poisoned orc-arrow. The moans of the burned warriors within the tents had greatly unsettled him. They reminded him too much of the aftermath of Morgoth’s attack on Gondolin. Many of those who had fled through Idril’s tunnel had suffered burns too in their flight through the city. Some had perished of their wounds before they could reach safety.  

“How are they?” Legolas asked when Gildor emerged from the nearest tent where Ingwion and Arafinwe were being treated for their injuries.

“Burns mostly. The Vanya prince probably has a concussion from being kicked or thrown by a horse.”

They had found the trio on the battlefield among the charred remains of horses, elves, and orcs. It was only by the blessings of Eru Iluvatar that they were still alive. Ingwion had been lying in a dip in the earth filled with blood and was shielded from the worst of the flames by his cousin. The Noldoran had been burnt by the dragon’s fire. His helm and armour had melted despite being crafted of heat-resistant alloys. Mornel had been the most badly injured of them. Her entire back had been charred through her cloak and armour and her hair was all gone. It had been touch and go for a while but Mornel’s condition had stabilized. All three elves would be in Mandos now if it were not for Fearocco’s sacrifice. The large horse had shielded the elves from the flames, perishing in the process.

Lord Oropher had suffered a wound to his side but was expected to live. The two young Sindar he had taken into battle as his squires were less fortunate. Amdir was consoling his friend over his loss the best he could. Gil-galad had emerged unscathed from his skirmish with the orcs. There was little news of the twin sons of Earendil for now. They hoped the youngsters were unharmed.  

“How is she?” A weary-looking ellon stumbled over. His armour was still caked with mud and blood. It was the raven-haired Feanorion.

“She is not yet awake…” Gildor explained and tried to stop Maglor from entering the tent but the taller elf brushed him aside. The young Vanya warrior posted at the entrance tried to stop him but Maglor fixed him with such a fierce glare that the ellon paled and stepped back. Without further ado, Maglor stepped into the tent, startling the healers within.

Maglor’s gaze swept over the patients. The elleth attending to Prince Ingwion gave a squeak of alarm at the sight of his bloodied armour and dropped the bowl of broth she had been spooning into Ingwion’s lips, spilling the hot liquid onto his lap. The prince sat up in his cot with a yelp. Maglor paid him no attention. Likewise, Maglor ignored the nod of acknowledgement his uncle gave him.

He strode over to the third cot in the tent where his sister lay motionless. Mornel’s hair was gone. Her body and limbs were heavily bandaged and slathered with ointment to treat her burns. She was lying on her front due to the severe burns to her back. Her leg was splinted, having been broken when Fearocco’s smouldering corpse fell atop it. Gingerly, Maglor stroked her exposed cheek, raw as it was. She moaned weakly in her deep healing sleep. Her eyes were closed as was normal with badly-wounded elves. Maedhros had spent days with his eyes closed in healing sleep just after his rescue by Fingon.

Maglor fought back the tears of frustration and sorrow which prickled at his eyelids. He could do nothing for her, just as he had watched helplessly as Pityo burned with the ships at Losgar. Mornel still lived but she was in pain. Fear clutched at his heart at the thought of losing another sibling. He could not survive another loss. With so much damage to her skin, Maglor knew his sister risked infection and fever despite the natural hardiness of their kind.

“Where are the Maiar? Why has nothing been done for her?” he demanded. The healers quailed at the anger in his voice.

“Kano, Master Olorin has been to see her. He has done what he could. She needs to sleep and heal… with time…” Arafinwe explained. “Her heart is grieving with the loss of a loyal friend…”

“That stallion of hers…” Maglor grunted. He had tried to befriend the horse during Mornel’s visit to Amon Ereb and received a bite to his hand instead. Fearocco apparently did not like the carrots he brought for him. The small kitchen garden had yielded a poor harvest for their fortress. Plump carrots were hard to come by. Fearocco’s noble sacrifice had spread through the camp. Already bards were composing odes in his honour, though Maglor seriously suspected the bad-tempered horse would prefer stomping their harps into the dirt.  

Mornel floated in a sea of pain. She recalled Olorin’s worried face bending over hers. She had heard her uncle’s voice, distant and distorted. There had been the temptation to just let go and leave her suffering body. It would have been so easy to do. _No,_ she was not going to Mandos, _not yet at least._ She had to think of her brothers, and convince them to return to Aman with her. She opened her eye a crack.

“K-kano…” she croaked.

“Shush, rest…” Maglor coaxed with a smile. “Let me sooth you with a bit of music.” He ordered one of the healers to find him a harp. He allowed Gildor to undo the straps of his armour so that he might wash off some of the blood and mud. Mornel and her fellow patients were soon drowsing to a soothing Valinorean melody.

It was decided to move the seriously wounded to a place of safety for their recuperation. Ingwion’s condition was deemed well enough for him to remain near the front. Arafinwe insisted he remained despite Galadriel’s suggestion he returned to the Havens until he recover from his burns. The Noldoran declared that as a king and a leader of the Host, he would not abandon his warriors. Due to Mornel’s severe injuries, she was among the first to be put on a litter and moved under the Maiar’s protection to the safety of Balar. During this time, Mornel slipped once more into a deep sleep under the influence of the Maiar.

* * *

When Mornel finally awoke from her healing sleep, she was slightly perturbed to realize that she was nowhere near Angband and the Host of the Valar. Instead, she was lying on a soft bed of eiderdown pillows. She could hear the waves. Her skin felt tight and itchy from the slow healing of her burns. Her head felt strangely light. Her body was still too weak for her to sit up but she managed to turn her head. Her aunt Earwen was deep in reverie seated in an armchair beside her bed. Earwen, Olwe, and Cirdan had taken turns to sit by her bedside, spooning thin but nourishing broth between her lips to feed her or wiping her brow with wet cloths when the bouts of fever came. 

“A-aunt…” Mornel called out weakly. Earwen awoke with a start.

“Mornel, thank the Valar you’re awake!” her aunt cried out and immediately rang for a servant. Together, they carefully propped Mornel up against the pillows.

Mornel shook her head at the offer of food and asked for a drink of water, which Earwen poured from a carafe on the bedside table. Mornel allowed the cool liquid to trickle down her throat before continuing.

“How long has it been? I must be with Uncle…”

“Three weeks, Mornel. Ara declined to come although he has been offered passage too,” Earwen explained. She knew her husband would never think of leaving his cousin and his warriors at such a time. “He was not that badly hurt, thanks to you – and Fearocco…” Earwen quickly reassured her niece. Mornel lifted her hands up to her face. Her fingers felt stiff and tight. Her skin was still scabbed in places. She stared at her bandaged hands. For a moment, she feared they had been burned off.

“Your fingers are still there, Mornel. The burned skin fused them together and the healers had to cut them free three days ago – once your fever broke,” Earwen explained. She carefully brought over a hand mirror. “Your hair was burned off too – it will take some time to grow back… the healers assured us there would be no scarring.”

Mornel stared at her reflection in the mirror. Thin black fuzz covered her scalp. Her face was almost healed with only thin silvery scars where the flames had licked at her skin. Her ears were also scarred. One ear tip was missing, giving her an almost Mannish-looking ear. Mornel touched her damaged ear with a bandaged hand.

“Oh, that ear! There are healers here who know how to re-shape the ear…” Earwen explained. _Or they could fix it on returning to Valinor, in Lorien._

Mornel shook her head and broke into a fit of laughter. She did look quite ridiculous. “I would leave it as it is, aunt… I might have to pass for a Mannish maid someday. Is there any news of my brother Maedhros – Maitimo?” She knew Maglor was still unharmed when they parted ways but Maedhros had not visited her at all. Maglor had not disclosed any news of their eldest brother.

“Nay, I have no news of your brothers, Mornel. Don’t get up!”

“I must go back…” Mornel threw aside the coverlet and tried to stand despite her aunt’s warning. Sharp pain shot through her right leg and she crumpled into a heap on the wooden floor. The servant and Earwen helped the patient back to bed. Through the pain, Mornel belatedly recalled that she had broken her leg too and it apparently had not healed fully.

Lord Cirdan came and had a servant bring a bowl of broth for the patient. This time Mornel accepted a few spoons of the broth before her weariness won out and she drifted back into reverie.

“She is a strong elleth,” Cirdan whispered as he tucked Mornel in like a child. “Peaceweaver… they say Maglor had named her that. I hope she will be their saving grace…”

“I hope so, Uncle,” Earwen agreed. The House of Feanor had had so much promise in the Years of the Trees. It was a tragedy how far the Feanorions had fallen to become Kinslayers, loathed by many of their kind. She shivered as she touched her niece’s cheek despite the crackling fire in the hearth. The shadow which hung over Mornel’s family was so much stronger here in Beleriand and she feared it might touch Mornel too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mornel will be spending some time recuperating on Balar before returning to battle as her uncle’s herald. Do not expect her brothers to write to her.


	18. Aunt Lalwen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornel meets a relation while recovering in Balar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am facing writer’s block on how Mornel should spend the remainder of the War. She will return to the front in time for the final onslaught on Angband, but I am not sure how she could spend her time before then.
> 
> I have made a minor rewrite of this chapter.

_Stubbornness is truly a trait any child of Feanor is known for,_ Earwen reflected as she watched Mornel’s increasingly frustrated attempts with her spoon. She had refused to allow herself to be fed like an elfling. They had just taken off the bandages from Mornel’s hands. The skin underneath was still tight with scar tissue and more operations would be needed for Mornel to regain the full use of her fingers. Finally, Mornel threw the spoon and bowl away from her. Most of the porridge had ended up on her tunic, the table and floor. She fumbled with the napkin Earwen offered her, wiping her face and the front of her tunic the best she could.

The slow recuperation from her burns was a trying time for Mornel. Unable to use her hands and with her leg in a cast, she was wheeled out onto a balcony whenever the weather was fine so that she might enjoy both the sea breeze and the view. Mornel was one used to activity. Having to sit idle, unable to even write in her journal, was a torment. Her nights were troubled by nightmares of flames and battle despite the calming draughts and the charms woven over her bed. Most of Lord Irmo’s Maiar among the host had long returned to the battlefront, her long-time mentor Olorin included.

The balcony faced westwards across the sea and away from the morning sun. Her healing skin was still too sensitive to bear the direct rays of Vasa. After the midday meal, a servant would wheel her back to her room where she would be expected to rest until supper. Mornel chafed at the enforced inactivity. She knew her aunt had to return to her vessel in the harbour. Cirdan had kindly granted her access to his library so that she might occupy some of the time between the midday meal and supper perusing his scrolls.

That morning was no exception. Mornel closed her eyes and savoured soft caresses of the sea breeze. She had dreamt again of dragon-fire. Some nights she was not in time to save her uncle and Prince Ingwion. Some nights she watched helplessly again as her loyal friend burned. Other times she dreamt of her brothers – Pityo and Maedhros. Pityo had burned with the stolen ships so many yeni ago. At least she knew he was safe in Lord Namo’s care in Mandos. Maedhros… Mornel often wondered about her eldest brother and how much he had suffered and changed through the yeni. He was nothing like the Maitimo Nerdanel had described to her.

* * *

The Shipwright dismissed his men after completing the discussions for the building of many more ships in the style of Earendil’s Vingilot. Only such ships would be able to withstand the sea journey to Aman. Based on his calculations, there would be too few ships in the Host of the Valar to ferry his people and the descendants of the Exiles across – even if half of the Valinorean warriors were to perish…

With a weary sigh, he rolled up his plans and scrolls. There were too few materials and too few men to be spared for his shipyard. Yet Lord Ulmo had insisted they try to commence the building of new ships. A low rumble shook the citadel, knocking his ink pot off the table. He caught before it smashed onto the carpet. Earth-shakes were not unheard of in that part of Beleriand but this was different. Something else was happening. 

Cirdan strolled out into the corridors in the direction of his library when he was halted by a nis. It was one of his long-time guests.

“How is she?” There was no need to speak the name of the elf whose health she enquired after.

“She is much recovered.”

“I wish to speak with her…”

“It shall be done, my lady.”

* * *

_“Uncle!” Mornel screamed as elves, orcs and men fought and died about her. She was on foot, Fearocco nowhere in sight. She turned around, seeking a glimpse of her uncle amidst the chaos. She caught sight of him then, standing atop a hill surrounded by the dead and dying. Maedhros. He was covered with dark orc-blood._

_“Stop him, please!” Maglor’s voice called out somewhere behind her. She turned around and saw Maglor fending off half a dozen orcs. She turned back to their eldest brother but it was too late. Before her eyes, Maedhros burst into flames…_

Mornel awoke screaming. A comforting hand rested gently on her shoulder.

“Peace, child,” Lord Cirdan soothed her. “You are safe.” Mornel found that she had fallen into reverie where she sat on the balcony and some hours had passed, long enough for Cirdan to come and wheel her back to his library where she had been studying a map of Beleriand received from the Sindar lords. A servant had brought her midday meal on a covered tray, and finding her in reverie, left it on a table on the balcony.

“Is all well?” the older elf asked. Mornel nodded shakily. She did not wish to share her dream with Lord Cirdan. The older elf brought over Mornel’s meal and urged her to partake of the now cold meal before proceeding.

Lord Cirdan felt that Mornel would benefit by interacting with the other invalid elves under his roof instead of being sequestered in her room now that her burns were healing. Mornel was a bit apprehensive but the older elf reassured her that she would be welcome despite her Feanorian parentage. Moreover, she had not enjoyed the gardens of the healing wing the last time she was under his roof, the guest rooms being on the far side of the citadel.

“Your valour in rescuing the Vanya prince and the Noldoran has reached Balar’s shores. The citadel’s walled gardens are fair and someone in particular would like to meet you…” Cirdan explained as he wheeled her down a long corridor to a golden cage which would convey them down to the gardens. Mornel’s leg was healing slowly but surely and the cast was due to be removed within the week. Soon she would be able to stroll through the citadel and the gardens without the aid of an attendant.

Small apple trees grew in the walled garden Cirdan wheeled her out to, providing ample shade and perfuming the air with their fragrance. Knots of elves lounged under their boughs. It did not escape Mornel’s notice that her arrival was met more with curiosity than hostility. Many of the elves bore burn scars, a testimony to their encounter with the dragon on the field of battle. One ellon had to be steered about by his companions and Mornel realized that he had been blinded by the flames. There were elves with missing limbs who reminded her of Nelyo. Some of them seemed to be in good spirits while others were morose and sullen.

“Mornel,” a regally-dressed nis peeled away from a group of patients and approached them. “ _Mae govannen…_ I wish we could have met under more pleasant circumstances.” Her resemblance to Mornel’s Aunt Findis was striking and Mornel knew she could only be her Aunt Lalwen.

Lalwen had been described as a happy nis given to dancing and singing before her not-so-happy marriage. Afterwards she had been a doting mother to her son and confidant to her brother Nolofinwe. Now the pale nis before Mornel was thin and marked by sorrow. Indeed, it seemed a wonder she had not yet faded from the weight of her grief and loss.

“We of Finwe’s line are stubborn to a fault. We do not fade so easily…” Lalwen smiled wanly as if reading Mornel’s unspoken question. “Come, child, we have so much to speak of.” 

* * *

Mornel soon learnt that after losing her son during their flight from Gondolin, Lalwen had not succumbed immediately to her grief as described by Arafinwe. She had an unshakable faith in the Valar’s forgiveness, that her son would be rewarded for his valour by rebirth in Valinor. _Had not it been declared a new star will arise from the line of Turukano and Tuor?_ That star could only be Earendil who now sailed overhead. Laurefindil had laid down his life in the boy’s defence. When she pressed Mornel on whether her son Laurefindil had returned from Mandos as Finrod Felagund had done, she was a bit disappointed Mornel had not heard news of her son. Perhaps it was too soon.

“They feared I would lose my wits after losing my son. To be honest I almost did, but so many needed my aid. Itarille, Earendil, and so many besides. We had to rebuild. Building a home at the Mouths of Sirion… No one could foresee the Feanorions’ attack… We were their kin… I had always prayed for reconciliation between my brothers. Alas…”

“Is it Sirion you grieve over?” Mornel asked carelessly. It had become a habit for her Aunt Lalwen to sit or walk with her in the gardens over the past week, ever since the healers removed her cast.

“In part. So many died so needlessly that day. It was this very last battle which caused me to kill a fellow elf…” Lalwen’s face darkened and she looked away. “Yet I do not regret following Nolo to Beleriand. If only your adar had lived long enough to reconcile with Nolo, if only Nelyo had not been captured…”

_The attack was sudden and bloody. Lalwen stumbled out from the hut she shared with five other nissi, all once high-born ladies of Gondolin. The thatch was aflame. They had to flee, or fight. Her companions were soon lost in the chaos. Lalwen wept as she ran. She had been spared the horrors of battle so far. Nolo had kept her safely behind the frontlines of battle. When her nephew Arakano fell, she had not seen the full extent of his wounds as Nolo felt seeing Arakano’s corpse would distress her._

_She had only caught a glimpse of Nelyo soon after his rescue. That sight had driven her to tears. Her Feanorion nephews had changed. They had become hard and cruel in her eyes when they attended the abdication. She thought Tyelkormo or Curufinwe might stab Nelyo or even Nolo the way they were glaring at the pair throughout the ceremony. When Turukano built his hidden city, she had agreed to be sent thence with Irisse and Itarille. Lalwen knew she was not smart like her siblings. She had no place in her brother’s council where so many wise neri held office. Neither did she accept Turukano’s offer to sit on his council in the new city, preferring instead to oversee the domestic aspects of her son’s household in Gondolin, she was able to pretend she was back in Tirion, so much had Turukano copied from the shining city. She had lived in that dream until they were forced to flee._

_Tuor and Itarille had thought it best she remembered her son as he was in life, but she had wept over his corpse before fainting with grief. Lalwen had never picked up any weapon in her life. The night in the Havens, she fleeing blindly, she had tripped over Lord Egalmoth’s corpse. His throat was slashed open, his eyes unseeing. Without thinking, she seized the scimitar from his dead grasp. A fearsome battle cry caught her attention. Someone was approaching her, sword drawn. Without thinking she thrust the blade upwards from where she was kneeling in the dirt._

“If only…” Lalwen shook her head and blinked away her tears. Galadriel had found her thus in the aftermath, kneeling with the dead Feanorian warrior’s head cradled in her lap. Beneath the helm, it was a mere youth she had slain, with long blond hair like her son. Galadriel had reassured Lalwen that even without her blade, the ellon was already dying. He had been riddled with arrows which Lalwen faintly recalled pulling from his cold flesh.  _Perhaps it had been the battle madness which often befall those close to death which made him draw a sword on a helpless nis?_   Her niece had suggested. The fault was not hers. Yet that night had haunted her dreams ever since, forcing her to seek healing on Balar, away from the Havens.

“Aunt, do you think it is too late for Maglor and Maedhros?”

“I do not know. I only know there is madness in Maedhros now. Angband is a fearsome place… those few able to escape its pits are forever changed, even if they appear sound in body. Be careful around him. I fear he may do something he might later regret.”  Lalwen’s eyes took on a faraway look as if she were looking into another time. She then excused herself and left her niece alone on the bench they had been sharing. Many years later, Mornel would wonder if her aunt had been gifted with the gift of foresight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the elves have invented an elevator system. I intend to have Aunt Lalwen remain with Cirdan until the end of the War. She will not be a warrior like Galadriel and Mornel.


	19. Earth-shakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornel slowly recuperates on Balar. The War starts to rip Beleriand apart literally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I doubt the entire landmass sank all at once, probably bit by bit.

Mornel lifted the bow, trying hard to keep it from falling out of her grip. Her hands were still stiff despite the salves her aunt Lalwen had rubbed into the skin to loosen the sinews and soften the scars. She took careful aim like her law-sister Helwien had taught her. The arrow went wide yet again. Mornel closed her eyes and sat down wearily on the grass. She wished Helwien was here with her to advise her on her archery. She had expected Helwien to join the Host. The redhead nis had readied her bow and arrows, training alongside the few Noldor and Vanyar archers. Yet she had changed her mind after paying a visit to the Halls of Lady Vaire to view the tapestries. Perhaps she could not bear to set foot in Beleriand knowing her husband was already in Mandos.  

Aunt Lalwen glanced up from her embroidery with a reassuring smile. Mornel returned the smile. Aunt Lalwen would console her on the poor performance, Mornel knew she was only trying to help but it did not distract her from the fact her hands were not as able as they once were. Her aunt would encourage her to set aside her archery in favour of a book or some other more sedate and lady-like activities.

Seeking some distraction, Mornel picked up some smooth pebbles from the grass and tried to skip them across the small ornamental pool.

“You’re doing it wrong!” a young voice piped somewhere above her head. An elfling with blond hair scowled at Mornel from among the leaves of an oak. 

“Thranduil, please come down from there,” Lalwen instructed sternly. “You know it’s almost time for lunch.”

“You’re not my nana, stupid Nolde!” the elfling retorted and shimmied further up the tree.

“He has been difficult since Lord Oropher left him behind…” Lalwen shook her head resignedly. “He has a lot of growing up to do, which I hoped he would do soon without his adar to cosset him.” The nissi yelped as a shower of acorns fell on their heads courtesy of a mischievous elfling. Mornel struggled between the urge to get her aunt away from the barrage and the urge to climb after Thranduil to administer a much-deserved spanking.

The ground beneath their feet suddenly lurched sharply. Elves were thrown off their feet. Glass in the citadel windows shattered. Sections of masonry crumbled. Mornel instinctively reached her arms out to catch a fair-haired elfling who had been shaken free of his leafy perch by the earth-shake. There had been earlier earth-shakes, but none as violent as this one.

“I want my ada!” Young Thranduil wailed from the safety of Mornel’s arms. Around them elves were moaning and bleeding, cut by broken glass or hit by fallen bricks and stonework. Lalwen had recovered from her initial shock and was rallying the unhurt elves in attending to the wounded. A dishevelled Cirdan emerged into the garden, wearing only a hastily-donned bathrobe. His hair was dripping wet as if he had hastened out of the baths.

“My friends, I fear we must prepare to evacuate the isle. Part of the northern isle has collapsed. Developments in Beleriand have destabilized the very rock of Balar.”

As the Maiar and Valar engaged the fallen Maiar of Morgoth, they ripped into the very fabric of Arda. Lord Ulmo had warned him of this but Cirdan had put off evacuating his people from Balar as long as he could. _Where else could they go?_ The mainland was fraught with danger. The Havens were a tenacious toehold that risked being overrun at any time. Yet there was nothing they could do now but take to the few ships available to them.

* * *

 

“Earth-shake!” a dwarf called out a warning. Everyone took cover where they could as tents collapsed. The earth beneath their feet cracked open. Lightning flashed over Angband in the distance. A company of dwarves had recently joined the Host despite their initial reluctance to take sides. Much was credited to Celebrimbor and Gildor Inglorion’s tenacity in seeking an audience with the current king of the Longbeards. Orcs had taken to tunnelling to attack the camps of the Host and its allies without being seen across the plains from afar. The dwarves had their stone-sense to warn the elves of any disturbances from beneath.

Maedhros paused to seize a dwarf by his beard before he tumbled down a crack which had opened up under his feet. The dwarf screamed in indignation.

“Let me beard go, you pointy-eared freak!”

Maedhros raised an eyebrow, and slowly released his grip. The horrified dwarf yelped in fear.

“No! Don’t let me fall!”

Some of the cracks opened into lava-pits which would mean a fiery end for anyone who fell into them. Maedhros grunted and seized the dwarf’s beard anew, dragging him to safety. The irate dwarf muttered some curses at him under his breath before scampering off.

“Maedhros! Are you well?” Maglor disentangled himself from the canvas of a collapsed tent. Elves were putting out fires caused by overturned lamps. Other elves were calling out to their panicked horses, trying to calm the beasts. “Don’t tease the dwarves. They are our allies…”

“Allies? I seem to remember you saying the same about the Easterlings…”

“It was your idea,” Maglor grumbled but left it at that. “I wonder how Mornel is…”

“Who?”

“Our little sister.”

“Oh, her. Better off in Balar. She has no place here at all,” Maedhros shrugged and picked up a spear. “Where’s our nephew?”

“Tyelpe? I last saw him around Uncle Ara’s tent…” Maedhros gave a snort at his brother’s reply, hefted the spear in his hand and threw it at a dead tree.

“So he is standing in as Uncle’s herald? I thought he would be drinking with the dwarves again.”

“You know we needed someone who could speak their tongue besides Gildor. Tyelpe’s the only one who picked it up from Caranthir.”

“How useful for him.” Maedhros had picked up enough Khuzdul to be reasonably fluent but Arafinwe had declined his offer to join the envoy to the Dwarves.

“You did break Gil-galad’s shield during the training, in front of those Sindar lords and Uncle.”

“That boy will get himself killed in battle, just like his father,” Maedhros replied glumly. Gil-galad was a fast learner, but not fast enough if he were to face a Balrog. Few elves were strong enough to face one. They left the Balrogs and more powerful foes to Lords Orome, Tulkas, and their Maiar. Hopefully, Gil-galad had the good sense to flee should he encounter a werewolf, vampire, or Balrog. Monstrous spiders were a problem in the wooded lands to the East, so Galadriel’s missives stated. The creatures seemed to be fleeing their nests in Ered Gorgoroth. They need not worry about their cousin. She was as seasoned a warrior as any of them.

* * *

A large part of the citadel’s outer wall had collapsed. Some stubborn elves still clung to the unstable rocks of Balar but Cirdan felt moving the wounded and vulnerable to firmer land was a safer option. Many of the elves from Balar were not mariners, but refugees from the interior. The choppiness of the sea made being on board the ships an uncomfortable experience. The holds were cramped with seasick elves. The rough weather made landfall difficult, if not impossible.

Aunt Lalwen was seasick. Thranduil and the other elflings were terrified. Mornel had experienced her share of rough weather sailing off Alqualonde. However, nothing could prepare her for the unnaturally rough weather they were facing. She fought her way onto the deck to join the sailors. The waves were lashed into whitecaps by the harsh winds blowing off the mainland. On the waves, the tumult over the north of Beleriand and Angband became more obvious to the watchers. The clouds to the north were an angry violet, much like a bruise on the sky. Lightning flashed amidst gusts of biting rain.

“Lord Osse!” Mornel leaned over the side and called out to the Maia. Osse sloshed over, splashing Mornel with salt-water.

“Could you do anything to hold the storm back?” Mornel shouted. A scowling Osse shrugged indifferently and swam off without responding. He was in a foul mood.

“Don’t blame him. We are trying our best but the very fabric of Arda is at risk. I believe Lord Orome has engaged the Balrogs…” Uinen murmured as she leaned wearily against the prow of the ship. “There should be a window of calm weather in the evening. Cirdan will land the ships then.”

“Why is the very earth being torn apart?”

“The power of the Valar. When they defeated Morgoth long ago, they demolished the mountains of the north where he built his fortress Utumno.” Mornel had learnt of the lore of the Valar from her tutor Rumil. “Morgoth has great power himself and is not likely to show restraint in its use.”

“Will Beleriand be lost?” Mornel wondered aloud.

“Perhaps, but Arda will survive,” Uinen dove into the waves and swam off.

They made landfall by sunset. The island of Balar continued to crumble as Lord Cirdan watched from the shore. More elves wised up to the danger of remaining and took to the ships for the already crowded Havens of Sirion. Useful goods were salvaged from the now-unsafe citadel and surrounding buildings. Lord Ulmo’s Maiar relented and assisted in guiding the ships ferrying elves and cargo through the choppy sea over several days as earth-shakes continued.  

Two years after the first earth-shake on Balar, Lord Cirdan watched with sorrow as his ruined citadel crumbled entirely into the sea. By then, Mornel had recovered and was off to serve her king and uncle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have Mornel returning to the battlefront for more frontline adventures. I think Osse and the other Maiar of Ulmo are trying their best to help but what they can do is limited. Osse may have some control over the storms and waves but not that much.


	20. The Long War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornel spends a lazy afternoon with her cousin Galadriel in the midst of the War of Wrath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some consideration, I have decided to move the timeline forward by a few decades. Mornel would have been in Beleriand for 20-30 years by now, long enough for the concept of aging and mortality for the Secondborn to sink in for her. I have also rewritten parts of an earlier chapter.
> 
> Apologies, I have re-written a section of this chapter again, but it should not detract too much from the plot.

_I have seen many cycles of the sun pass, yet we seem nowhere nearer to victory. The rift between my brothers and me grows ever wider by the day. Maedhros has absented himself from the recent council meetings with Uncle, so I heard from Celebrimbor. Maglor has his hands full trying to control our brother’s increasing recklessness. He tried to lead a troop of a dozen warriors to storm Angband. Thankfully, the captain of the troop had enough sense to see the folly of his order. Maglor had to pull Maedhros off the poor ner before he choked him to death. Even his own warriors fear Maedhros now. Is there nothing that can save our brother from himself?_

“Where’s Hadar?” Mornel inquired after one of the Edain chieftains.

“He has passed on. Took ill two months back…” Galadriel replied. “His son Halbar leads his clan now.”

“He was old for a Secondborn,” Mornel conceded. It was ten years since she last met him, and he had been seventy at least back then. The chieftain’s wisdom would be sorely missed. Elros and Elrond had grown into young adulthood by now, and were proving themselves with the Edain warriors. Gil-galad had re-joined the elven warriors of the Host after proving his mettle on the battlefield. Even young Thranduil had joined the warriors under Lord Amdir’s command. The losses on both sides had been heavy. No matter how many orcs they slew, more seemed to emerge from the pits of Angband.

Mornel was in Galadriel’s camp deep in the forests of eastern Beleriand where they had been seeking safe havens for the many elves and men displaced by the violent earth-shakes which sent entire mountains tumbling into the hungry sea. Hadar’s people had spoken of hidden glades in the great forests of the east where their ancestors had found safety from Morgoth’s forces in bygone times.

On this lazy afternoon, the nissi were relaxing by a bubbling brook. The two granddaughters of Finwe had formed a fast friendship.

“Oropher sends his thanks to you for his son last autumn,” Galadriel murmured as she braided a daisy chain into Mornel’s hair. “You must have impressed both father and son for him to admit that before my husband. He would never admit to owing a Noldo a debt…”

“Fate put me there to do so,” Mornel replied, blushing furiously. “He owes me nothing. Any warrior elf would have done the same.” She had been travelling through the woods when she had overheard the taunts of the orcs…

* * *

Mornel sensed the uneasiness in the trees, half-dead and choked by rotting webs. She had learned how to read the trees from a Silvan clan she had spent a winter with. These woods were poisoned by the spiders when they passed through eastwards to flee the earth-shakes. She next caught the distant, harsh voices of orcs. She whispered to her horse, a steadfast brown pony named Buttercup. The mare tossed her head and plodded into the shelter of a pine. She cropped the thin grass sedately but Mornel knew her pony would be alert and ready to run at any sign of danger.

“Sing for us, pretty elf!”

Mornel crawled cautiously through the undergrowth towards the sound of voices until she came to the edge of a clearing. What she saw shocked her.

A dozen orcs were tormenting a captive elf near a small campfire over which something was roasting. The captive had a spear driven through his forearms, pinning them behind his back. A rope was tied around his neck like a collar. One leg was badly broken and the shattered shinbone poked out through the flesh. He was naked, bruised, and bloodied, but he glared defiantly at his tormentors. Mornel’s heart sank. She recognized the young captive – Thranduil Oropherion.

Mornel’s gut twisted when she saw the mutilated corpses in the shadows and the source of the sickly-sweet smell of roasting meat. It was the torso of what could have once been an elf. Thranduil’s comrades had already fallen, killed in the initial attack or slaughtered for sport by the orcs in the aftermath. Tethered to a tree, a solitary warg snuffled at a pile of bones. Thankfully, Mornel was downwind and the beast did not catch her scent.

She was alone. Buttercup could not back her up the way Fearocco could. Mornel grimly felt for her sword. It was sharp enough but lacked the range she needed. She had her bow and arrows but her quiver had only ten arrows left. Warg hide was notoriously tough and Mornel wondered if her arrows would pierce it.

“Enough, now you burn!” the orc captain suddenly snarled. He snatched up a spear. Two other orcs seized their captive’s legs. Thranduil squirmed in the orcs’ grip as he realized they intended to impale him. Mornel needed the orcs’ attention away from Thranduil, and fast.

A fickle shift in the wind made the warg prick up its ears. It could smell another elf on the wind. It growled and slavered, distracting its masters.

“What’s it now, mutt?” one irate orc snapped. Jaws gaping, the warg lunged in the direction of Mornel’s hiding place. Mornel leapt to her feet and loosed several arrows in quick succession. One struck the warg in the eye. Another pierced its throat through the open maw. The beast fell over choking on its own blood. Mornel continued firing her arrows as she closed the distance between her and the orcs.

Stunned by the sudden onslaught, the orcs released their hold on their captive and Thranduil fell to the hard ground with a painful thud. Outnumbered and alone, Mornel had to act both swiftly and decisively. More orcs fell to her arrows before her quiver was emptied. Tossing aside her bow, Mornel drew her sword.

She swung her sword, taking down more orcs before she reached Thranduil. She stood before him, shielding him from the remaining orcs. Bitten-off moans of pain and tearing flesh told her Thranduil was trying to free himself from his bindings. She decapitated an orc. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Thranduil had crawled up against an ancient oak. Blood was running from his badly-mangled forearms. He could not stand, much less fight. At least he had ensured no one could sneak up on him from behind while she guarded his front.

With a fierce battle-cry, Mornel charged at the remaining orcs, who had time to fetch their own weapons. She dodged an axe-swing and buried her sword in her attacker’s gut up to the hilt. A crack on her head from a flailing arm sent white-hot pain through her skull.  _She would not fall._ She growled low in her throat, a feral sound, as her sword was wrenched from her grasp, caught fast in the gut of the slain orc. She slipped on a patch of black orc blood and fell. A leering orc lifted his axe high to finish her off.

Mornel glanced to her left and saw a metallic glint in the mud. It was a discarded orc-spear.

She seized the weapon and struck the orc in the groin. With a choked snarl, he dropped his axe, its blade narrowly missing her. Mornel grabbed the axe from the ground and cleaved her attacker’s head in two. The last orc, considerably smaller in build than his fellows, considered his options and chose flight.

Mornel threw the axe at the fleeing orc. They could not afford to let him fetch any reinforcements. It struck him in the back. He fell twitching, and then moved no more. She collapsed panting with exhaustion. Thranduil had fainted against the oak tree during her desperate battle. It took almost an hour for her to recover sufficiently to see to Thranduil, who was just coming back to his senses. The orc poison had festered in his wounds and he was starting to burn with fever.

Mornel cursed when she found that her bow was splintered after being trampled on by one of the orcs in the melee. She would need to obtain a new one. She buried the dead elves the best she could beneath the trees in the Silvan manner at Thranduil’s insistence. She left the orcs and warg in the open for any spiders or wild wargs. They simply lacked the time and energy to gather wood to burn the grisly remains. She left Thranduil in the nearest Silvan hamlet where he might recuperate from his ordeal.

* * *

“Your fire burns bright, cousin, tempered as it is,” Galadriel murmured. “Yet you do not seem to recognize your gift.” Initially she had been envious of the trust her father placed in her young cousin. However, she was thankful for Mornel’s help in reuniting her parents and assisting her father back in Valinor.

“I don’t…” Mornel protested but Galadriel shushed her.

“You have proven yourself a warrior. Yet Maglor would name you peace-weaver, and I agree with him. Atto sees your talent by naming you his herald in reaching out to the various tribes. You have not only Oropher’s gratitude but my lord’s. Thranduil is a kinsman of his too. You also have my thanks for what you have done for my father.” Galadriel’s fingers danced in Mornel’s hair, braiding in a small mithril ornament shaped as an oak leaf.

“It suits you,” Galadriel braided its twin on the other side of Mornel’s head. She kissed her lightly on the brow, a maternal gesture Mornel rarely experienced even as a child.

“I have heard so much about my atto and brothers, both good and bad. Do you think they could return someday and walk in Aman?”

“Perhaps, we cannot divine the melody of Iluvatar’s song. I confess I have yet to forgive them for Alqualonde, my brother Finrod, and Doriath.” A shadow passed over Galadriel’s face, as fleeting as a passing cloud. She took a deep breath to compose herself before continuing in a different vein. “Did you hear about young Thranduil’s first crush? Oropher told my lord his son was infatuated with a certain Silvan maid.”

“Really?” Mornel grinned. A generation of elflings were growing into maturity in the midst of the war. Elrond had written that his brother had paid court to the daughter of one of the Edain chieftains but was sorely disappointed when the maiden chose a young archer of her tribe over him. She had died in childbirth delivering twin daughters. In his turn, Elros has written that Elrond was the object of many a young lady’s affections, Elven and mortal alike.

Her cousin made a face. “Oropher’s not exactly thrilled. Amdir is highly amused. I believe Amdir will choose a Silvan maid for his wife when the time comes, being more open in such matters.”

“You speak as if you know them well,” Mornel observed and sat up. Her new hair ornaments twinkled in the sunlight. She never had been one for jewellery but she had to admit they were pretty. Galadriel nodded.

“When we first arrived in Beleriand there was a great feast between our people and the Sindar- _Mereth Aderthad._ We were kin though we have been sundered for many Ages. I danced with so many young neri that night, including Oropher and Amdir. I met my lord there – we did not dance but I knew when our eyes met across the hall that we were meant to be. It took forever for him to approach me and speak. Had it not been for my chaperone Finrod, I would have stormed over then and there and demanded he dance with me.”

“My wife had many suitors. I was surprised she chose me over all others,” Celeborn strolled up to the pair and kissed his wife tenderly on the lips. A brace of pheasants hung at his belt. Galadriel took them from him. The nissi prepared the birds at the water’s edge while Celeborn dowsed under the trees. Mornel had noticed that even among the Sindar, it was rare for an unwed nis to lead.

Sometimes Mornel envied the companionship and affection shared between elven couple. Her bloodline and her outspoken character was enough to deter most suitors. Others only saw in her a chance to be part of the Finwean royal house. She was not so naïve as to think Celeborn did not treasure Galadriel’s wisdom and spirit. Theirs was a rare partnership. Many elven couples drifted apart eventually, as her parents did. There were also whispers of dark magic certain elves worked to secure a mate. Her cousin Aredhel had fallen under the spell of such an elf, so the whispers went.

“Be wary when travelling in the woods,” Galadriel had warned her. “There may be others besides Dark Elves who seek to waylay you, and they may not be so easily deterred. Beware your brothers too. The Oath has eaten away so much of what was good in them, driving them towards their doom. Be careful they do not drag you down with them.”

Mornel had encountered many unusual things in her travels. She had once met an ent and his wife in Ossiriand where the ents lived in harmony with the Green-elves and listened to their song. There were wolves and bears without any form of malice, content to journey alongside her through the woods. Mornel wondered if these were sentient beings, perhaps a race of mortals her kin had not encountered yet, living secluded in the wilderness. Sometimes she would find a hidden village or homestead with only beasts in sight. She knew these were not the creatures of which Galadriel and Finrod had warned her against.   

Mornel took her leave of her cousin within the week. Her place was beside Arafinwe or riding out with his missives to their far-flung allies. She had tarried long enough with Galadriel. A suitable valley in the far eastern reaches of Ossiriand was eventually located for the Edain and Silvan refugees.

_Uncle summons me back to the field. News has reached our forces of thralls, both Elven and Mannish, who have fled through Angband’s extensive mine-works. These were viewed with suspicion by our armies. Maedhros had drawn a sword on one such unfortunate and mortally wounded him before Maglor could restrain him. The former thralls have been placed under the care of the Maiar, for the taint of the Shadow still lingered on them. Master Olorin insisted that I be recalled to aid them with the former slaves but I do not know how I can be of aid._

_I will miss Galadriel. She is the elder sister I never had. I fear when the time comes, she will remain with her husband in Beleriand instead of returning as Uncle hopes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I am just dragging this out because I have no idea how to end this arc. Mornel has been travelling about Beleriand over the past decades as her uncle’s herald. She has befriended Galadriel, Celebrimbor, Gil-galad, and to some extent, Maglor. The Sindar have a grudging respect for her after she saved Thranduil’s life.


	21. In the Healing Tents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornel assists in the healing tents where not all could be saved. She meets her brother Maglor and Celebrimbor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have made minor rewrites to the earlier chapters (from chapter 15 onwards) which should not detract too much from the original plot.

It was no surprise for Mornel that she encountered Maglor in the healing tents. Maglor would often slip unobtrusively into the tents where the recovering thralls and wounded rested, to offer them peace through his music or to assist the healers in their care. The Maiar would tolerate his presence but many of the elven healers would shrink from him as if he were an orc. Maglor did not react when one old elf spat at him and cursed him as a Kinslayer. Perhaps this was Maglor’s way of trying to atone for having failed his brother so long ago. Olorin was right about her music being of aid to the thralls, many of whom were beyond even the care of Irmo and Este’s Maiar. It was not uncommon for a patient to appear dowsing only for them to later find his fea had slipped off into Mandos. At least with their music, she and Maglor could offer them some solace in their final hours.

The injuries inflicted on the thralls by their torment in the pits were horrendous. Many were disfigured beyond recognition by scars or had lost limbs. Many more were broken in their mind and spirit. Such had been dragged from the pits by their fellows. Who knew how many more perished in the pits from despair or along the wayside, unable to continue? There were a handful of Dwarves among the patients, who proved to be amazingly resilient in comparison. One greybeard had stoically dealt with the loss of his leg by requesting access to a forge, assorted metals, and tools to work them. He surprised the healers by striding into the tents a fortnight later with a fully-articulated steel leg.

Mornel understood that a handful of Men had aided the escape, weary of their enslavement under Morgoth. They claimed descent from the members of Houses of the Edain who had been enslaved by the Easterlings as they rode west. They spoke of secret tales whispered in the dark by their mothers and grandmothers behind closed doors – tales of the Elf-king Finrod Felagund and Beren’s quest, of the Battle of Many Tears, and of the romance between Aegnor and Andreth. Many more were rebelling against their Easterling masters, the same masters who now grew tired of Morgoth’s lies and broken promises.  Only fear held them captive to him still. These Mannish refugees were hurriedly reunited with their free kinsmen to avoid any misunderstanding with Maedhros. After their betrayal by their Easterling allies, the Feanorions were reluctant to have anything to do with the Secondborn.

“I played chess with Caranthir,” the greybeard chortled as he oiled and tinkered with his limb. The old dwarf had slipped back into the tents to check on one of his elvish fellow escapees. He now sat chatting with Mornel, having picked up from camp gossip that she was a sister of the Feanorions. “Very bad loser, he was. He broke the board over his knee after the game. I was young and foolish then. It could have been my head instead of his knee. But he was a fair enough business partner. Had a bit of a soft spot for redhead lasses. Makes me wonder if his wife or sweetheart’s one…”

“Yes, his wife has red hair,” Mornel conceded. The workings of the dwarf’s mechanical limb fascinated her. It functioned almost as well as a flesh and blood limb. The Children of Mahal were renowned for their smith-craft. The limb was as functional and intricate as anything the smiths of Formenos could produce. Perhaps they would be able to fashion a hand for Maedhros. A groan from the patient drew their attention.

“There, there, safe now…” the dwarf reassured the patient who murmured unintelligibly. He was so scarred he was barely recognizable as an elf. His ears had been sliced off, his tongue torn out. One eye socket was empty. He clutched the blanket to his chest with his mangled hands. Underneath the blanket, he was almost skeletal. He had been light enough for the old dwarf to carry him as one would a child. The healers had tried to feed him but his hroa seemed to reject any form of sustenance. He could only sip a few spoons of thin gruel before his stomach spewed everything out. Despite the efforts of the healers and the Maiar, he was fading fast. No one knew who he was or whether he had any kin. The orcs had brought him to the pits some years ago, another escaped thrall informed them. His tongue had been torn out before then.

“Listen here, Elf. The Host of the Valar is here to kick Morgoth’s sorry ass back to whatever pit he crawled out of. You are going to hang in there to see that, understand?” the dwarf bellowed. The patient shook his head. Mornel sensed the heavy aura of despair which descended on the patient. They were losing him.

“Lady Mornel! We have to speak regarding your brother!” Lord Galdor fumed as he stormed into the tent. On the heels of that incident with the Mannish thrall, Maedhros had caused another diplomatic incident, this time by throwing a spear at a Vanya noble.

At the sound of Galdor’s voice, the mutilated elf turned towards him. Mornel saw a flash of recognition in the elf’s remaining eye. She heard the mental shout as clearly as if the patient had actually spoken.

 _Galdor!_ _Mellon nin!_

Lord Galdor froze and stared at the elf. “S-Salgant? Oh Elbereth’s mercies! We thought you died when Gondolin fell!”

The Lord of the Tree hastened over and enveloped the patient in a fierce hug. The pair could not speak for a while, so choked up with sobs they were. The dwarf dabbed at the corners of his eyes with a hanky and made an excuse to leave the tent. Suddenly, the patient went limp.

“Don’t you dare die on us now, you confounded idiot!” Galdor yelled and shook his fellow lord. Mornel hurried over and felt for a pulse. There was none. Salgant’s fea had flown for Mandos.

There were no trees for the pyres of Valinor or the grave markers of the Sindar and Silvans. The earth was hard baked and did not yield easily to their shovels. A long shallow pit was dug some distance from the healing tents. Any patients who had passed in the night were laid to rest in it. A small cairn would be raised over the pit, a marker to all that the pit was occupied. Galdor was in a decidedly foul mood when they buried the last of his fellow lords. He would have struck Maglor when he started to play a lament for the dead had his manservant not stayed his hand.

Any conversation Mornel managed to get with Maglor was guarded on his part as if he did not wish to let on how badly their eldest brother’s mental state had deteriorated. She did not meet Maedhros apart from fleeting glimpses among the now-thinning Feanorian ranks. Celebrimbor confided that many of her brother’s men now feared his uncle and sought to fight under Arafinwe’s or Gil-galad’s banner. These ‘desertions’ were covered up by Maglor lest an increasingly erratic Maedhros chose to hunt down the men and put them to the sword. Whispers among the Feanorians still spoke of how the redhead Maedhros had dealt with Celegorm’s lieutenant after Doriath upon hearing he had left the sons of Dior to die in the wilds.

* * *

The healing tents were far enough from the battlefield to offer some safety to the patients and healers, but they were near enough to the command tents for Mornel to sit in on the occasional war meeting when the Noldoran felt her opinion would add to the discussion. The sanity and trustworthiness of her brothers was a major concern for many of the war leaders. Many felt Maedhros should be locked up for everyone’s safety. Mornel felt this would only enrage her brothers and destroy any remaining goodwill between them and the Host of the Valar. Given their distrust of the Valar, there was no point getting Master Olorin or the other Maiar to tend to their deep hurts.

Apart from the sporadic orc incursion and earth-shake, Angband was quiet. Earendil’s crew and the Great Eagles kept a wary watch on the dark peaks. Arafinwe wondered if Morgoth was planning a sudden attack on the Host as he had done during the Battle of the Sudden Flame. Gil-galad had no wish to remain waiting for four centuries and suggested they attack Angband. The suggestion was diplomatically ruled out by the Noldoran and Ingwion. They did not know what horrors the pits held and it would be a meaningless loss of life. The young High King of the Noldor grudgingly deferred to his elders’ judgement at Mornel’s coaxing.

“What do you think he is planning?” a grey-faced Vanya captain asked. After the decades of war and death, his eyes were tired. “My men grow weary with longing for the Blessed Lands…” 

“I prefer to think he is cowering from Lords Tulkas and Orome in the deepest hole he can find in his fortress,” Mornel replied tartly. “This war is long and hard. It will get harder. Our resolve cannot waver now. Neither can we throw the entire war on a foolhardy move.”

“Hear, hear! My herald speaks wisely. We cannot afford any more divisions among ourselves. Neither should we act rashly,” Arafinwe spoke. “We will continue to watch Angband and prepare for any battle that comes. We must hold fast to our faith in the Valar. I will seek an audience with them through Lord Eonwe.” He needed to know what actions, if any, the Valar and Maiar were taking against the Black Foe. _Were they to fight the Balrogs and other terrors still lurking in Angband?_  

* * *

 

In her free time, Mornel would seek out her nephew at his forge. Orders for armour and blades kept him busy. Celebrimbor longed for a time when he could create things of beauty instead of weapons.

“Will you return to Aman with us?” Mornel asked one night after sharing tales of the glorious beauty of Tirion, the sedate charms of Alqualonde, and the rustic environs of Formenos.

“Nay,” Celebrimbor replied as he tapped out a dent in a breastplate. “I was born on these shores and I have no desire to sail as yet. There’s so much I wish to learn from the Children of Mahal with regards to my craft.” The desire for new knowledge blazed bright in his eyes. “I saw a dwarf with a copper leg which works as well as a real one. You should have seen that knee and ankle…”

“Indeed, if we could have such a hand made for Maedhros if he decides not to sail…” Mornel knew her brothers’ stubbornness. She had also noticed that it was beyond the powers of the Maiar and Valar to restore limbs outside the Gardens of Lorien. Many warriors from Valinor had already lost limbs in battle from wounds or poison. Oddly, those who came to terms with their status as amputees looked upon Maedhros as an inspiration. _If a cursed Feanorion could fight the forces of Morgoth without a hand, why not a warrior of the Host blessed by the Valar?_  

“Atto fashioned a prototype for him. We brought it to Himring as a gift. Everything went well until he tried to fit it on Uncle Maedhros. My father came home with a broken jaw. He could not bear to have anything metallic strapped against his skin. Did you not notice his shield’s ironwood and not metal?” Maglor would have to strap the shield onto Maedhros’ left arm before any battle. Celebrimbor still kept his distance from his uncles although he would agree to fix their armour and weapons if Maglor asked it of him.

“Gildor is riding with a patrol of Lord Amdir’s men to meet with the Longbeards. He told me so when I shoed his horse. Legolas is trying to pick up Quenya. Lord Galdor has indicated his desire to sail when this mess is over,” Celebrimbor updated his aunt on the news. “No news from Lord Celeborn and the Sindar as yet.”

The Sindar and Silvan units were sent into the forests where they excelled in tracking and ambushing orcs. Others were sent to guard refugees fleeing eastwards as Beleriand crumbled. Hence Mornel saw little of her cousin Galadriel and the Sindar lords. Lord Cirdan wrote that he had found an isle left from after the crumbling of the shore which provided some wood and a safe haven for ship-building. A handful of refugees sought shelter there alongside the ship-workers. He added that the isle came with a rundown keep for the elves to shelter in. Celebrimbor wondered aloud if the isle was Himring. Mornel thought it would be fitting that the former Feanorian fortress should have been used to aid the Falmari and the refugees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was one version of the Fall of Gondolin where Lord Salgant was captured and brought to Angband as a prisoner. None of the other thrall might have recognized him or the link with Gondolin since it was said that he was kept as Morgoth’s buffoon for some time before the War. 
> 
> A question I was considering is how much healing the Valar and the Maiar could offer outside Lorien when even Miriel faded from exhaustion in Lorien. I presume that there is a limit to what can be done and there will be casualties in the war. Basically, Olorin has signed Mornel up for palliative care work and Maglor is volunteering.


	22. Dark Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron tries to tempt Mornel into betraying her uncle and the Valar, and naturally fails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After consideration, I have rewritten this entire chapter.

_Our army is on the move again. The healers and wounded have been sent off the plains to the coast where ships await. More have fled to the great woods in the east. Lord Cirdan’s people hold ships in preparation for us to sail back to Valinor when Morgoth is overthrown. There is no conceivable escape now that the Valar have surrounded his stronghold. Orcs still sally forth to meet our warriors in battle but they are beaten back without fail. My brothers lead the fiercest of the attacks and their warriors bear the brunt of our losses. It seems that my brothers are seeking death in battle, or a greater prize before the Valar reaches them – the remaining Silmarils upon Morgoth’s crown. Perhaps our foe taunts them in their dreams, as he has with mine._

Mornel prayed for Lord Irmo’s protection. She was alone in a dark place. She did not dare share the increasingly sinister nature of her dreams with anyone, not even Master Olorin. She knew she was not the only elf to be troubled by dark dreams. The sense of malice had lingered like a shadow over their dreams ever since they faced their foe across the plain of battle. Yet Mornel could not help feeling that the Shadow had singled her out as a child of Feanor and a princess of the Finwean bloodline.

In the fog of her dream, she stumbled into a tent where her uncle Ara slumbered in deep reverie. She took in the familiar royal tapestries which adorned the Noldoran’s sleeping chamber. The crown rested on a velvet cushion atop a clothes-chest. Mornel felt drawn to the circlet which had graced the brows of her grandfather and uncle. It was a modest and practical piece made for daily use. She was familiar with it, having handled it many times assisting her uncle’s dressing before a war council meeting in a servant’s place. Now it seemed to waver before her as if bathed in fire.

 _He has no right… They have no right to the crown of the Noldor._ The whispers started in earnest. Mornel turned around, searching for the source of the voice. She reached for her dagger and felt it sing with power in her grip. Gil-galad had gifted it to her as another king of the Noldor. It had been tricky having two kings of the Noldor on the war council but the kings had worked out a suitable arrangement with regards to rank and protocol. Gil-galad did always found protocol tiresome and was more than willing to ignore any slips.  

_The kingship was never theirs. Your brother should never have given away your birthright._

“What do you want of me?” One of the Shadow’s minions, a fallen Maia perhaps, Mornel decided.

 _Your brothers and father will be restored to their rightful glory as princes among your people. None will dare insult your House. You will never have to bow to anyone save my master… You will be a queen among your people with power above your wildest imaginings._ Each temptation sickened Mornel for she knew them for lies. The voice laughed as if it read her thoughts. It was an eerie sound which sent chills down her spine. She backed into a tapestry and stumbled, bringing down the heavy brocade in a heap.

She was staring at a tapestry on her knees, one she had not noticed before. It depicted the Star of the House of Feanor, under which a group of ten smiling elves were depicted – her family, happy and whole – and she among them. She recognized her mother, ruddy and smiling. There was Maglor with his harp and gentle smile. Maedhros could only be the tall, handsome ner with red hair standing beside her. His right hand rested on her shoulder in a gesture of affection and acceptance. _You want this, don’t you, Feanoriel?_ As an elfling, Mornel had dreamed so much of having her father and brothers back in Aman, having a complete family. Many times, she had enviously watched elflings in the streets of Tirion with their parents and siblings. She staggered to her feet.

 _Just one little stab, to take back what is yours…_  She was now standing over her sleeping uncle, the dagger pointed at his unprotected throat. Her arms trembled. She could not control her body.

“NO!”  Mornel screamed aloud as the blade descended. At the last moment, she forced the blade away from its downward path and into her own gut. Blood was gushing from her wound.

“Leave my dream now!” Mornel hissed through the pain of the sharp edge of her sorrow. She would never know her father in person, or most of her brothers. Since her earliest childhood she had already tasted the loneliness of abandonment by them. She yanked the dagger free. It glowed with an unearthly white fire under the blood. Gathering her strength, she threw the dagger as far as could away from her, willing it to strike at the source of the voice tempting her. There was a scream of rage…

“Aunt! Wake up!” Someone was shaking her awake. _Celebrimbor,_ her hazy mind registered. Her belly felt wet and sticky. Remembering her dream, Mornel glanced down. Somehow, she had fallen asleep over her table and knocked the ink pot all over her lap. It was only a dark dream. The Noldoran was safe. Arafinwe informed her earlier that Ingwion had invited him and Lord Celeborn to a private dinner in his tent. He was probably spending the night there too. The cousins had grown close since arriving in Beleriand.

“I heard you scream…” her nephew fidgeted and apologized for barging into her tent. He was not alone. Two identical faces stared at her from the doorway. _Elros and Elrond._ A third face appeared above the youths’. _Olorin._

“Mornel, what happened?” the Maia pushed past the twins. “Eonwe sensed a shadow over your tent. I see he was not mistaken.” She would have to tell her mentor. First she had to send her nephew and the twins on their way. She did not wish to trouble them.

“Mairon, but he would be better known as Sauron now,” Olorin concluded when Mornel had finished her tale. It was no surprise that Morgoth took a special interest in the Noldor, the House of Finwe in particular. The Exiles were the only ones in Beleriand who could defy him apart from Melian, and Melian had been content to protect her own within her Girdle. Not so the Noldor. Even back in Valinor, there had been rumours of Morgoth’s interest in Feanor and even young Artanis. Both uncle and niece held power within far above other elves.

Finwe had almost been reconciliatory when the apparently repentant Vala was released into Aman. He encouraged his subjects and children to learn from the knowledge Morgoth so freely offered them. Feanor was suspicious of Morgoth and had warned his sons against him. Galadriel and her brothers would have nothing to do with the Vala. They sensed something wrong behind his offers of friendship which turned the Finwions away from Morgoth well before his treachery. The Valar had forgotten how many Maiar Morgoth had corrupted into his service even before Valinor was created… It would be so easy…

 _No, Mornel would not falter or be tempted into Morgoth’s service,_ Olorin insisted.

 _She would need watching._ _All the remaining children of Feanor needed watching,_ Eonwe replied. _Their fire burns too brightly. Even Nolofinwe’s grandson fell._

 _That was another matter,_ Olorin replied.

* * *

“Brother! Have you lost your mind entirely?” Maglor bellowed at his elder brother in a rare fit of rage. Maedhros scowled as he kicked his discarded armour. They had suffered many casualties in the ill-advised latest foray into Angband’s defences. Maedhros’ judgement was becoming increasingly impaired as the war dragged on. Even Maglor could not counsel him. This time, Maedhros had gone off with a small troop of brave but inexperienced warriors without informing Maglor. Less than half of the band had limped back to safety.

“We have to get the Silmarils before they do – the Oath,” Maedhros moaned. He had been dreaming of Angband for many nights now. Each nightmare sending him back to the pits where he had suffered so much for so long. He had seen their father’s jewels shining on Morgoth’s iron crown as he was forced to kneel before Morgoth after his capture, the Treelight mocking him. _If only…_

Maglor hugged his brother, his rage abating. He ran his hand through his brother’s red hair which had been cropped short for practicality after his manservant had been slain by an orc. Maedhros sobbed into Maglor’s shirt like a child. Maglor could imagine the frustration his brother felt. The Oath was so real for him. Perhaps if they could hold the Silmarils, his brother’s shattered spirit would be healed.

* * *

In the darkness of the healing tents, Mornel eased yet another soul into Mandos to her song’s accompaniment. Sauron had tried to invade her dreams but she was now protected by the Maiar. However, she knew Eonwe could not guard her forever. The Maiar were needed elsewhere. At this late hour, many Edain and Eldar would be entering the realm of dreams where the enemy might strike to weaken their resolve. 

Mornel closed her eyes. The Adan whose bedside she had been attending had passed. There was nothing else she could do for him. The wheedling voice was back, nagging at the back of her mind. It urged her to turn to Morgoth, betray her uncle and the Valar in exchange for the return of her family’s birthright. Mornel took a deep breath and steadied herself for what she had to do. She had had enough.

_Get out of my mind. I will not betray my king. The Valar will send your master to the Void where he rightfully belongs!_

The force of the astral shout was astounding. All over the camp, elves looked up from their work in surprise. The unheard shout beat back the oppressive pall overhanging the camp. It echoed all the way back to Angband. Mornel staggered with the exertion of expelling the voice from her mind. It was gone, for now. She sat down and cradled her harp for comfort.

Elros and Elrond had been busy rolling bandages in a nearby tent. The pair chuckled as they heard their aunt’s reply to Morgoth’s lieutenant. The words were not heard by any of the other elves. It was only their Maiar bloodline through Melian which allowed them to eavesdrop so clearly.

“I was wondering when Aunt Mornel would do that. He has been bothering her for a while,” Elros whispered. “I wanted to help her but Lord Olorin says we are too young to mess with the forces of Shadow…”

“I think Lord Olorin is scared of Sauron too,” Elrond added. “He is scary… even though we have not met him,” the peredhel shivered, and not from the cold winds which sometimes sneaked into their camp from the north. “Aunt Mornel’s brave and very strong, inside.”

“What of Uncle Maedhros and Ada Maglor?” Elros piped up suddenly. “Could we help?” Elrond shook his head. There was no way they could reach out to their once guardians now. Too much time had lapsed and they had grown distant. They were no longer elflings to clamour for Maglor’s attentions or vex Maedhros with their pranks. Perhaps it was already too late for them.

Elrond peered out of their tent suddenly.

“What is it?” Elros asked. Elrond shook his head. Perhaps he had been mistaken. He was certain someone was outside the healing tent Aunt Mornel was in.

Unseen by the elves, Eonwe smiled. The Feanoriel had exceeded even his expectations in her steadfastness. Any one of her brothers might have faltered, tempted by the offer of the Silmarils, or the return of their birthright, so he thought. The Feanorions were only a step away from orcs as evidenced by the cruelty of the Kinslayings. There might be something still worth saving in Maglor, but Maedhros was far too marred for healing in this life. A sad fate for the House of Feanor indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, Mornel has reminded Sauron why the House of Finwe and the House of Feanor are sworn foes of the Shadow. 
> 
> I am not sure how the elves would have been able to fight or project on an astral plane or the spirit world (i.e. the world Frodo and Bilbo see when they wear the One Ring). I like the idea of Mornel basically telling Sauron to stuff it. I imagine Elrond as being more in tune with his Elvish side and being more astute than his brother in some aspects. 
> 
> I feel Sauron’s POV is a bit overdoing it. I think Mornel should not meet Sauron physically, or she would have warned her nephew about him. Morgoth is the main Dark Lord for the First Age.


	23. A Flight of Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgoth makes his last stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How the heck did Earendil manage to kill Ancalagon – who was so big, his corpse broke Thangorodrim’s towers? Was there some chink in his armour like for Smaug where a weapon could kill him? Had to dig out stories about dragon-slayers, maybe the Silmaril burned Ancalagon. 
> 
> I have rewritten this chapter.

Morgoth could not hope to hold out much longer. Not even the darkest visions sent forth by his lieutenant into their sleep could shake the grim determination of the Host. The attacks by the orcs were almost continuous over the past five days and nights. It was as if they were driven by a desperate fear. The orcs would fight until they were slain, driven by their master’s will. Many of the Edain and even some of the Eldar and dwarves had succumbed to exhaustion and had to be borne off the field. Among them was Maedhros. Mornel had watched him being carried into a healing tent too spent to even protest as a Maia healer put him on a cot.

Lord Eonwe gave orders for a part of the Host to be held in reserve to relieve the wearied warriors. Messages were hastily dispatched to the Sindar and Silvan warriors still in the forests of the east via Maia or Eagle for reinforcements. Armour-clad Maiar appeared among the Elven warriors to take some of the strain off them. The sight of the golden armoured Lord Eonwe among them put fresh heart into their warriors.

Instead of being sent out for reinforcements, Mornel fought alongside her uncle. The Noldoran’s herald had proven to be fearless in battle. Her skills as a warrior were needed now more so than her comforting music. An exhausted Maglor had limped into the tent shortly after their elder brother was seen to and offered to take her place at Maedhros’ bedside. He had even assisted Mornel in tying on her armour. She met up with Arafinwe as he was preparing to lead a troop out to relieve the Elven warriors on the front. They had charged into the melee to allow their tired and wounded comrades a chance to retreat. They said the orcs feared the sun but under the dark clouds of smog, the field was bathed in a sickly twilight even at the height of day.

The earth shook constantly now, rattled by unseen battles fought by the Maiar against the Balrogs deep in the belly of the earth. A particularly large tremor threatened to knock Mornel off her feet. The Noldoran’s horse reared and almost ran away. The elf-horse was almost mad with fear and it was only Arafinwe’s skill as a horseman that saved him from being thrown.

“Dragons!” The warning shout went up. A ripple of fear washed through the combatants. Mornel glanced over in the direction of Angband. Dragons were pouring out of the peaks of Thangorodrim in a massive swarm. There were dragons of all shapes and sizes, from small ones the size of dogs to monstrosities the size of a small hill. Most had wings, but a few scurried on the ground with wings too stunted for flight. Some breathed fire. Others spewed a foul smoke which felled any warrior unfortunate enough to breathe it in. Yet others had icy breath that froze all it touched.   

A small firedrake swooped down on Mornel, breathing small puffs of flame. It was a mere baby. Mornel smacked it out of the air with her shield before stabbing it through the heart with her sword. A less fortunate warrior near her had his head ripped off by a dragon the size of a cow.  Another beast seized a nearby dwarf in his talons and flew off. A cat-sized ice-drake alit on the nose of Arafinwe’s steed and blasted the hapless horse in the face with its icy breath, freezing its head instantly and killing it. As he leaped clear of his falling horse, the Noldoran rammed his sword down the ice-drake’s open maw. The sword struck straight into its heart but the blade shattered from the sheer cold of the beast’s blood. With a moan, Arafinwe clutched at his frozen sword-arm.

“Horse! His Majesty is hurt!” Mornel called out. A riderless horse galloped up and Mornel hoisted her uncle onto the saddle. Their forces on the ground were being driven back by the onslaught of dragons. The Eagles of Manwe were the only things keeping their warriors from being completely overrun. By the dying light of the sun, Eagles swooped into the fray, tearing at the dragons’ wings and eyes with their sharp beaks and talons. Falling dragons crippled by the Eagles were a hazard for those below. Brave Vanyar spear-elves made swift work of those fallen serpents still alive with their lances and spears. Chaos reigned all around but worse was to come. With another rumble, the peaks of Thangorodrim trembled and a dragon far larger than any ever seen before emerged from it.

This was Ancalagon the Black. When he spread his wings, he blocked out the sun. With a roar, he soared and flew into the air, blasting flames from his gaping maw. Immediately, he snapped at the Eagles, tearing into their ranks. The mighty birds did not flee but continued their onslaught on the dragons.

“Earendil!” Mornel watched in horror as the shining Vingilot made a beeline straight for Ancalagon. Earendil was charging into the fray. On the battlefield, two brothers glanced up during a lull in the fighting.

“Ada?” Elros gasped as his elvish sight spotted Earendil swinging his sword at Ancalagon, dodging his ripping talons and snapping jaws. The shining light of the Silmaril pained and blinded the beast and he kept a wary distance from the gem. Great Eagles still tore at the iron-hard scales of Ancalagon to no avail. Their massed attacks were nothing but an annoyance to the massive dragon. The Vingilot’s crew fought to keep her aloft as her sails were shredded by claws and fangs.

“Ada!” Elrond cried out as Earendil lost his balance and fell. He caught hold of a trailing rope and hung below the keel of his vessel with his sword still in hand, narrowly escaping falling to his demise. The dragon seized the Vingilot by the mast and shook her vigorously like a dog with a bone. Earendil swung wildly under the ship like a pendulum.

 _The pale scale! The pale grey scale on the belly!_ The peredhil twins had spotted the chink in the dragon’s armour. Now they screamed out aloud and in their minds to their father. Earendil’s elvish blood was thin and he had never been skilled in osanwe. All seemed lost.

Earendil spotted it then, a scale of a lighter shade on the beast’s dark belly. With a prayer, he threw his sword at the scale. It pierced through the scale, entering the beast’s body. It must have stung a little, for Ancalagon released the mast of the Vingilot. With a flap of his wings, he flew a short distance from the ship and the blinding gem. Making use of the lull in the battle, Voronwe and the rest of the shaken crew dragged their captain back on board.

To their horror, the dragon opened his gaping maw, ready to let loose a blast of flame. Earendil seized hold of the helm and shouted out orders to his crew. The Vingilot turned away from the blast as the dragon breathed fire. They could not turn quickly enough. Ancalagon’s flames scorched the timbers of the hull and set fire to the tattered rigging. Alarmed sailors beat out the flames as best they could. Eagles tore at the beast’s wings and eyes, distracting him just enough from launching a further attack.

Cursing, Earendil slapped out an ember which had landed on his shoulder. The Eagles could not distract the beast forever. They must act and quickly. _The Silmaril._ Earendil gripped the helm and aimed his vessel’s bow straight at his foe. He fearlessly rammed the prow of his vessel, Silmaril and all, into the beast’s belly through the wound he had made earlier. Ancalagon screamed as the sacred gem burned him from within. He thrashed wildly in his death throes and fell like an enormous rock from the sky.

Dying, the dragon crashed to earth atop the towers of Thangorodrim, breaking them. The scorched earth cracked. Dust and ash rose in a massive cloud, threatening to smother all. Several Eagles were knocked out of the sky by the shock of the impact. Many dragons were killed in the collapse of the towers, their eggs crushed in their nests. For a moment, everyone waited with bated breath. _Where was the Vingilot? Had the brave vessel been crushed as Ancalagon fell?_ To everyone’s immense relief, she emerged victorious through the dust cloud, the Silmaril still shining on her splintered prow. At the last possible moment, the vessel had pulled herself clear of the dragon.   

* * *

The battle was over when the sun finally rose. News flew quickly through the ranks. Their losses had been massive but the Black Foe was defeated. The Valar Lords Orome and Tulkas had stormed into Angband, cornered Morgoth in the deepest pit of the fortress, and captured him. Lord Tulkas had hewn Morgoth’s feet out from under him and they had bound him in the chain Lord Aule had crafted for that very purpose. The Silmarils were removed from his crown and placed in Lord Eonwe’s tent under guard by Ingwion’s most trusted warriors.

 _What of Morgoth?_ Lords Tulkas and Orome cast him out into the Void where he would remain for all eternity. There was much rejoicing at the news and much sorrow over their losses.

The dead and wounded that littered the field were seen to. Their dead were buried with honours and the injured tended to. Any orcs and creatures of Morgoth still living on the field were slain. Sword in hand, Mornel dispatched a mangy warg that had sought out an easy meal of elven flesh. She had fought almost nonstop for a day and a night. Now she was exhausted almost beyond endurance. She watched numbly as an Adan dealt the mercy blow to a mortally wounded brother with his dagger. There was no way the youth could have survived with his extensive burns which went all the way to the bone. For a moment, Mornel was reminded of her brother Maglor and his best friend Earlindo.  

It was only at Olorin’s urging that Mornel relinquished her task of combing the battlefield’s aftermath for a rest in the tents. The Maia informed her that a handful of elven slaves had survived in the pits of Angband and were being treated by Lord Irmo’s Maiar. Most of them would need to be sent to Lorien in Valinor for full healing. Mornel needed her rest before she could help the Maiar treat the wounded. Mornel returned to her tent to catch some much needed reverie. The War was finally over and she was so tired.

For the first time in a long while, her dreams were pleasant and free from the shadow.  She dreamt of her earliest childhood, watching the fires of her grandfather’s forge dance in the darkness until she either fell asleep or her grandmother came to usher her away. In her dream, the vessels of Tilion and Arien arose from the Mansions of Aule and brought light once more to the darkness. Surrounded by the Valmarian jewel-birds, she danced at a wedding. _Was it her Cousin Finrod’s? Or perhaps her law-sister Serelinde’s?_ There was a singer with the most melodious voice but try as she might she could not find him among the guests on the pearly white beach. Mornel dreamed of sailing on board a white ship with her father’s Silmaril at its prow like a beacon. She saw two young elves – twins - holding hands, tears in their eyes. She sensed a deep sorrow pass between them. Little did she know that as she dreamed the Choice was being offered to the sons of Earendil.

* * *

After she awoke, Mornel found her uncle seated outside her tent. His injured arm was bound in a sling. The Maiar had managed to limit the damage to it from the ice-drake’s breath. A meal was sent for. Over their bread and broth, Arafinwe informed her they must not linger too long on these shores. The War of Wrath had compromised the stability of Beleriand and they must leave for more stable ground in the East or sail back to Valinor in haste.

“Artanis has made her choice to remain …” Arafinwe murmured. The thought of parting from his daughter once more hurt him.

“Perhaps this is part of the Music. She has Lord Celeborn whom she loves dearly and a life among her chosen people here…” Mornel pointed out. Arafinwe had yet to accept fully that his daughter now considered herself one of the Sindar.

“Gil-galad will remain to rule over those Exiles not yet ready to sail. Many like Celebrimbor were born on these shores and never knew the beauty of Valinor,” Arafinwe paused to take a sip from his glass of miruvor. “We have also lost Elros Earendilion – the Choice has been offered and he has chosen the path of Men. There is talk of a new homeland for the Edain displaced by the crumbling of Beleriand. Elros will lead them. Elrond will remain with his kinsman Gil-galad.”

“What of my brothers?”

“Mornel, no one has seen your brothers since yesterday, before the dragons came,” Arafinwe broke the news as gently as he could. His nephews could be lying unrecognized among the many badly mutilated bodies on the field awaiting burial. Alternatively, they could have fled east away from the Host of the Valar they so mistrusted. He coughed awkwardly and fidgeted in his chair. “Lord Eonwe asks if you would like to see the two jewels your father created.”

Mornel had already seen one of the Silmarils – when they put it into a cage on the prow of Earendil’s vessel. _Surely its siblings would be as fair and bewitching?_ Still, it would be rude to turn down an invitation from Lord Manwe’s herald.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In some folklore, we see dragons that breathe freezing blasts (ice-drakes) or poison. I presume that Morgoth would have experimented with different versions of the dragon other than the most common fire-breathing variety.
> 
> It really took me almost forever to write the showdown between the Vingilot and Ancalagon. Apologies to anyone who liked the original draft.


	24. The Path Chosen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond is having a rough time dealing with his twin’s choice. Mornel holds the SIlmarils and here brothers are up to something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have rewritten the previous chapter for a more climatic showdown between Earendil and a certain dragon. Now I have to crack my head over a Silmaril theft.

“How could he?” Elrond shouted as he kicked a stone vehemently. “We should be together… always…” The recent events had caused a tumultuous whirl of emotions within the normally calm elf the likes of which he had never experienced before. He did not know if he should be mad at his twin, or at Lord Eonwe, or if he should be sad about losing his twin.

Mornel was on her way to meet Lord Eonwe when she spotted the distraught youth at the edge of the camp under a withered tree. He had been crying, so she deduced from his running nose and reddened eyes. He wiped his tears away with his sleeve. Mornel made no comment but stood close beside him in silence, until he was finally ready to speak.

“Lord Eonwe told us we had to choose. I chose Elf, Elros chose Man. Why? Now he has to leave with the Edain, grow old and die - and we will never see each other again,” Elrond mumbled. “We quarrelled – he should have chosen as I did. Now it is too late… He told me his heart is with the Edain…”  

He was young for an elf although most men his age would have become fathers and even grandfathers several times over. Mornel slipped an arm around the younger elf’s shoulders but Elrond shrugged it off. Galadriel had noticed the growing differences in the brothers as they grew and mentioned it in passing to her younger cousin. Galadriel had suggested the boys would walk very different paths in life. _How could she have guessed at the truth of her words?_ Elrond’s heart leaned towards his Elvish kindred but Elros felt the call of his Mannish blood keenly. Mornel reflected that it was probably for the best the pair chose as their hearts dictated but she made no mention of this to Elrond.  The young elf was not ready to reach that conclusion, not when the wound of separation and dented pride was fresh. Elros was not such a fool not to know his own heart.

“Where’s Elros?” Mornel asked.

“In the Edain camp. The Valar promised them a new homeland across the sea and Elros as their leader. I am forbidden to follow them. My brother has gone to meet the elders,” Elrond replied sourly. “Then he will sail off away from me and…”  

“Sailing across the sea is no easy feat – what more with three hundred young and old? There are ships to be built, and provisions needed,” Mornel mused. “Your brother will be busy, perhaps even too busy to seek you out. Will you allow the memory of your last meeting to be a quarrel?” 

Elrond shook his head. His temper had cooled enough now for him to see some sense. All he needed was one last nudge.

“Go to him,” Mornel gently gave him a shove in the direction of the Edain encampment across the dusty plain at the foot of the hill they stood on. The elf nodded, smiled, and scrambled down the rocky slope. Mornel’s breath caught as he slipped and slid down the loose stones on the last bit before he regained his balance. Soon he was trotting off to the collection of tents the Edain called home.

“Mornel,” a voice called out behind her. She turned around. It was Maglor and Maedhros. They were still in their leather armour, bloodied and grimy from battle. More importantly, they were alive. Unrestrained joy flared up in her heart, and a faint glimmer of hope. She hugged Maglor despite the dirt and blood. Maglor warmly returned the gesture. She next hugged Maedhros, who visibly flinched at the touch. He almost reluctantly returned the hug. She released him as soon as she sensed his discomfort. Perhaps he had been wounded.

“Are you hurt?” she asked. Maedhros shook his head. Maglor very deliberately gave him a nudge but only received a glare from Maedhros.

“We have decided not to go back to Valinor. The Oath and the Silmarils – we have done too much…” Maglor started. Mornel held up a hand to stop him. She did not wish to hear anything about the Oath or the Silmarils. Still, she was disappointed they would not return with her to Valinor. Maedhros muttered something under his breath but Maglor shushed him.

“Come, let us sit under that tree,” Mornel suggested. She sensed it would be a long chat. Her brothers obliged.

Under the withered oak tree, they spoke about Elrond and Elros. Maglor conveyed his concerns that the twins were to be parted thus. Maedhros snorted and replied that the twins were far stronger than his brother believed. Mornel spoke of their mother waiting in Valinor in hope of weakening their resolve to stay behind. However, Maglor remained steadfast in his decision and beseeched Mornel to convey his decision to break their bond to his wife, thus freeing her to wed his friend Earlindo. Maedhros’ replies were monosyllabic while Maglor’s words practically gushed from him. Mornel felt increasingly uneasy in her heart. Something was wrong. Her brothers were hiding something and she could not guess what.

* * *

The sun was starting to set by the time she rose to take her leave of her brothers. Lord Eonwe must be furious with her tardiness. She strode over to Lord Eonwe’s tent, pausing to greet the guards posted outside by Prince Ingwion. These Vanyar elves were known to her. Maranil was a young ellon eagerly looking forward to returning home to his betrothed. Ethwe was older and a grandfather several times over. A skilled spearman, he had taken an orc arrow to the arm a few weeks back and Mornel was glad he had recovered. She asked after a mutual friend who had been recently wounded by dragon-fire. Ethwe replied that the wounded warrior was recovering quickly. Maranil showed her into the tent where Lord Eonwe was poring over a scroll at a large table.

Lord Eonwe scowled at the scroll, deeply engrossed in the figures upon it. Lord Ulmo had decreed that an island be dragged up from the seabed and rendered habitable for the Edain. Such an undertaking was no light task. After the Valar had turned it into a liveable land, the Edain would need a means to get there. They would need boats, provisions and some means of navigation. Most had never even set foot on a ship. Elros might not be able to convince them to sail out into the unknown.  

Mornel made use of this time to study her surroundings. The interior of Eonwe’s tent was as richly furnished as her uncle’s. Beautiful silken tapestries hung on the white linen walls. Assorted chests, caskets, and coffers of varying sizes and design lay strewn about the floor, on and even under Eonwe’s large work table. Countless maps and scrolls cluttered his table, spilling onto the floor. There were assorted unidentifiable trinkets sitting on side tables and atop the larger caskets. There was no bed or cot in sight. Mornel mused that perhaps the Maiar did not require rest in the same manner the Children did. There was no sign of the Silmarils.

Neither the guards nor Mornel noticed the thin blade which opened a small slit at the back of the tent. The Feanorions had sneaked back into the camp unseen, and were now peering through their little peephole, studying the happenings within the tent of Lord Manwe’s herald. Finally tiring of waiting, Mornel gave a discreet cough to draw the Maia’s attention.

Eonwe glanced up from the scrolls and stood up. He greeted Mornel and she replied with a small bow. Their relationship had always been cool, unlike her friendship with her mentor Olorin and the somewhat quirky Aiwendil. He walked over to a cedar chest and unlocked it with a key. From within he took out a smaller silver casket which he brought to the table. He unlocked this with another key and fished out a velvet pouch. Once the neck of the pouch was loosened, the Light of the Trees filled the tent. Mornel heard the awed gasps of the guards. Maranil let his spear fall with a clatter as he fell to his knees in reverence. Ethwe murmured a paean of praise to the Valar.

Outside the tent, the Feanorions trembled with a mix of awe and rage as they watched. Eonwe took their father’s gems in his hand. “Mornel Feanoriel. Come. Hold the work of your father. You have my permission and that of the Valar.” Mornel obeyed and joined him beside the table. He held out the gems to her.

Entranced by the beautiful light, Mornel mutely allowed him to place the twin gems in her cupped hands. The gems pulsed with warmth as if they were alive. In their depths Mornel glimpsed a vision of the Trees Telperion and Laurelin in their mingled glory. She soon returned to her senses. She remembered the suffering the Silmarils had inadvertently brought – the Oath, the Kinslayings, all the meaningless deaths in the war, and the destruction of what good remained in her brothers. She felt an almost overwhelming urge to fling both gems onto the ground and stomp them underfoot. She took a deep breath to master her roiling emotions.

“Lord Eonwe, they were never mine to hold,” Mornel said and held the gems out to the Maia. “It would be best if they were broken and the Treelight freed.”

“Child, it is not yet the time,” Eonwe’s stern demeanour softened. With a gentle hand, he wiped away from her cheek tears Mornel had not realised she had been shedding. “The work of your father was not all ill though it has caused much suffering for your House indeed. My apologies.”

Outside the tent, Maedhros gripped his sword hilt but Maglor forestalled him. _We do not have to do this…_ he pleaded silently with his eyes. He did not wish to continue with their plan, especially when their sister was present.

Maedhros shook his head. _No, we have come too far to turn back now._

Eonwe slipped the pouch over the gems and the Treelight was hidden from sight once more. He placed the pouch on the table beside the casket he had taken them from. The Maia walked across the tent to a small table where a bowl of fruits sat alongside a carafe of wine, meaning to offer his guest some refreshments. The pouch lay temptingly within the reach of the watching Feanorions. The guards stood at ease at the entrance. Mornel was still shaken by her experience with the Silmarils. Almost unaware of her actions, she picked up the pouch and placed it back into the silver casket which she now saw was decorated with the loveliest design of interlocking leaves and vines.

 _Now!_ Maedhros gave the silent command. Maglor slashed open the fabric of the tent with his razor-sharp dagger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mornel will not speak to Elros, not until he is king and she visits Numenore much, much later.  
> Maranil – good friend (Quenya)  
> Ethwe – spearman (Quenya)  
> Names of the guards from realelvish.net.


	25. Theft of the Silmarils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Feanorions steal the Silmarils and their sister is unwillingly caught up in the theft.

_She’s not part of the plan!_ Maedhros ignored the dismay in Maglor’s voice the best he could. _We must wait… there will be another chance…_ Maglor pleaded. Mornel should not be here with Eonwe and the guards.

 _There will not be another chance! We must act. And now!_ Maedhros insisted. The Host of the Valar might take the Silmarils over the Sea the next day. The camp was packing up. They had observed the steady movement of chests of armour and weapons towards the shore to be shipped back to Valinor.

 _Now!_ Maedhros gave the silent command. Maglor slashed open the fabric of the tent with his razor-sharp dagger. Both Feanorions dashed into the tent. Both skilled warriors, they acted swiftly, not allowing for any opening for the guards to react.

“Hold her!” Maedhros shouted. Maglor seized hold of Mornel, placing his dagger under her chin with the flat against her skin. Her hands were still holding the small silver casket holding the Silmarils. Maedhros had his sword drawn before him. Once the guards had recovered from the initial shock of the ambush, they pointed their spears at the intruders. However, they dared not attack, not when the Kinslayers held Lady Mornel as their hostage. No one was willing to test whether the Feanorions would stoop to harming their sister given their rumoured madness.

“Don’t try to stop us,” Maedhros warned. The guards exchanged glances. _Surely the alarm would be raised by now._ Others would be converging on the tent. Lord Eonwe stood almost nonchalantly holding a carafe of wine and a cup.

“Nelyafinwe Feanarion, cease this madness. Repent your sins! The Silmarils hallowed by my Lady Varda would not allow themselves to be held by you.”

“Shut up! What do the Valar care for us?” Maedhros bellowed. Mornel made use of the distraction of Maedhros’ outburst to stomp on Maglor’s toes. When she sensed his grip on her loosen from the shock, she elbowed him in the gut, and dropped the casket containing the Silmarils. She twisted both his arm and the knife away from her. Seeing her break free, Maranil vaulted over the scroll-table to go to her aid. Unfortunately, Maedhros was swifter and more experienced at combat than the young Vanya.

“Maranil!” Mornel watched in horror as her friend went down, his thigh bleeding profusely. Maedhros’ bloodied sword was now pointed at his exposed neck.

“Pick them up,” Maedhros commanded her. “Now!”

Mornel scooped up the pouch containing the Silmarils which had fallen onto the ground when she dropped the casket. Maglor had recovered and now took hold of her anew. Glaring at her brothers, Mornel thrust the pouch into her tunic instead of handing it over. It was the one act of defiance left to her. She wanted to prevent any further bloodshed by her brothers but she was afraid of what would happen if she let her brothers handle the gems. 

“Move!” Maglor considered snatching the pouch from Mornel but thought better of it. She was more valuable to them as a hostage. The Vanyar guards drawn by the commotion would kill them otherwise, with or without Lord Eonwe’s permission. The Maia frowned slightly but made no move to stop their escape. Ethwe considered for a heartbeat, threw down his spear, and went to his comrade to tend to his wound. Maranil’s blood loss was considerable and he needed treatment urgently.

After exiting the tent from the hole they had rent in it, the Feanorions dragged Mornel towards the outskirts of the camp. Their departure did not go unobserved. Elves, Maiar, and even a handful of dwarves and men, now gathered outside Lord Eonwe’s tent. They cautiously left a clear path for the Feanorions’ escape. Everyone was reluctant to challenge the Feanorions when they had a hostage at their mercy. Lord Eonwe followed at a safe distance after he had cast a small healing spell over the wounded guard, enough to slow the blood loss until he reached a proper healer.

“Let the Feanorions go!” Lord Eonwe shouted out when an armed Lord Galdor and his manservant Legolas tried to block the trio’s path. Galdor scowled but stepped out of the way, dragging an outraged Legolas with him before the servant could attempt striking Maedhros with his staff. The younger warrior was no match for the one-armed Maedhros. A horrified Celebrimbor watched frozen at his forge when they passed it. He did not even notice a live coal had fallen onto his boot until it had burned through the leather.

“Stop! Cease this madness!” Running out of his tent with Gil-galad, Arafinwe pleaded with his nephews to no avail. Gil-galad made a valiant attempt to challenge Maedhros in a headlong charge but Maedhros simply dodged his spear-thrust. The redhead cracked him on the side of the head with the flat of his sword, knocking him into the dust. It was hard enough a blow to momentarily stun the young king, allowing the pair to mount their waiting horses. Mornel was roughly manhandled into the saddle in front of Maedhros and her hands tied to the pommel. The elf-horses stomped and whinnied restlessly but they obeyed their masters, taking flight from the safety of the camp into the unknown wilderness of a rapidly collapsing Beleriand. No one, not even the Maiar, gave chase.  

“So it has come to this,” Arafinwe watched helplessly as the trio galloped off. He had no doubts about his niece’s loyalty. He only feared what his nephews intended to do with her, and the effect the Silmarils would have on his nephews. Gil-galad was starting to come round. He was soon arguing with Lord Eonwe about sending a party of riders after the Feanorions. The Maia would not be persuaded. Arafinwe agreed with him. The Feanorions would see any pursuit miles away. They could not risk any harm to Mornel.

* * *

 

“So it has come to this,” Mornel fought against her bonds but Maglor had tied them well. “You would choose those Silmarils over family!” she accused but Maedhros remained unmoved. Maglor grimaced at her words.

“You do not understand. Atto put so much of his heart and soul into the creation of the Silmarils. The Valar did wrong by asking him to destroy them…” Maglor tried to explain.

“You know nothing, you never knew Atto, or the Oath, or the horrors of war,” Maedhros prodded Mornel in the side with his stump.

“I do know of the Darkening. I do know what the rebellion of the Noldor left behind for us all – Amme, Uncle Ara, and many others. I have fought on the battlefield against the armies of the Black Foe,” Mornel retorted. “Yet I see the senseless massacres of Alqualonde, Doriath, and Sirion were not wrought by Morgoth but by your blind loyalty to your Oath!”

“Don’t test me, wench!” Maedhros growled. Mornel knew she had touched a nerve.

“Gag her!” Maglor hastened to obey his brother’s command with a murmured apology.

Fuming, Mornel could sense the growing uneasiness of their horses. The smell of sulphur grew heavier. Fire and smoke spewed from large cracks which had opened up in the rock about them. On one side of the path was a steep cliff plunging into an angry sea. Thunder rolled and lightning flashed overhead. 

They finally stopped for the night along a lonely sea cliff. Maglor untied and ungagged an exhausted Mornel. He helped her off Maedhros’ horse and over behind a pile of rocks so that she could attend to the call of nature. Mornel held her tongue when Maglor warned her to watch her words. A fire was started some distance from the cliff’s edge and a simple meal was prepared from the meagre rations in Maglor’s saddlebag. There might still be stray orcs and wargs about in the nearby hills despite the craters and chasms of fire.

“Sorry, Mornel,” Maglor apologised as he handed her a water-skin and a hunk of bread. “We never meant for you to get caught up in this.” Mornel accepted the water-skin and bread although she had little appetite. Maedhros busied himself cleaning his sword with the edge of his cloak. The blood had caked on the blade but it was of good elvish make. It would take more than a bit of blood to ruin it.

“Hand over the Silmarils. You may return to their camp. It is not that far a walk…” Maedhros glared at her. Mornel was reminded of the pouch in her tunic, which she had all but forgotten about. She shivered under his glare. The gems pulsed warmly through their velvet pouch, momentarily relieving her of the biting cold of the night. She was only lightly-dressed in her leggings, shirt and tunic. She had not thought to wear a cloak for the short walk to Lord Eonwe’s tent.

“Maedhros, she can use my horse, and my sword,” Maglor protested. “It’s too dangerous on foot, unarmed.” He unpinned his cloak and threw it over Mornel’s shoulders.

“Mornel! Hand over the Silmarils now!” Maedhros shouted. Mornel shook her head and clutched at the pouch in her tunic. Maglor sighed as he stoked their campfire with one hand while restraining his brother with the other.

“Sister.” Mornel turned to face Maglor. It was easier looking at his dark blue eyes, the colour of the sea off Tol Eressea, rather than the stone-hard eyes of their elder brother.

“Pass us the Silmarils please,” Maglor added in a soft voice. As if hypnotised by his melodious voice, Mornel removed the pouch from her tunic. Putting down the stick he had been stoking the fire with, he held out his hand as she reached out with the pouch.

“Good…” Maglor urged. That hint of impatience in that word snapped Mornel out of her trance.

“No, you must come with me to return the Silmarils and seek the for…”  Mornel started as she drew back her right hand, pouch and all. That was the final straw for Maedhros and she never finished her sentence.

Neither Maglor nor Mornel noticed the flash of steel until it was too late. Blood sprayed onto the flames. Mornel fell screaming in agony.

“Nelyo! What have you done?” Maglor screamed. Mornel watched through a haze of pain. Casting aside his sword, her eldest brother took the Silmarils from her right hand which was no longer attached to her. She could see their Treelight flashing though the open neck of the pouch. Close to passing out from the pain and blood loss, she soon became aware that both her brothers were screaming too as if in pain.  

 _One for each of us…_ Maedhros emptied the contents of the pouch onto the blood-stained ground with his one hand. Mesmerized by the Treelight, Maglor followed his brother’s example and picked up the gems. That was when the burning pain started.

Maglor glanced at his fallen sister and then at the burning gem in his right hand. It burned his hand as if it was a hot coal. Images of all the Kinslayings flooded his mind. They had sinned and the pureness of the Treelight would not tolerate their holding them. The Silmarils had burned Morgoth for his evil deeds. Likewise, they now seared Maglor’s flesh. Despair flooded the second son of Feanor. With a final cry, he flung the Silmaril from him as far as he could, over the cliff edge. It sailed like a falling star as it hit the waves, lost to Lord Ulmo’s domain.

Maedhros was not faring any better. The same horror and realization filled his face. _What have we done?_  He had cut off his own sister’s hand in a fit of mindless rage and greed. Disgusted with himself, Maedhros turned and ran, still clutching the burning Silmaril in his remaining hand. Laughing crazily in both madness and despair, he ran straight for the nearest fiery chasm.

“NO!” Maglor yelled as he ran after Maedhros. Mornel staggered to her feet despite her wound. They were too late to stop Maedhros from the act he had set his mind upon. The redhead threw both himself and the Silmaril into the fires of the chasm.

* * *

 

_In Mandos_

“Oh no,” Finwe groaned as yet another one of his grandchildren entered Mandos. Nelyo’s fea was a mess. Lord Namo’s Maiar had to be ever so careful with him, guiding him along. He could not bear any contact with another fea. He seemed more like a shadow rather than a proper elven fea. Feanor had died in burst of flame. His eldest had chosen to immolate himself. They could not allow Feanor to see his son in such a state.

Lord Namo immediately sent a summons for his sister. This was an urgent case. Maedhros’ fea had been so battered and worn down by all his sufferings that he might never be able to heal enough to leave Mandos. Lady Nienna had her work cut out for her.  An elf had chosen self-destruction willingly – that was a first. Elves had faded from weariness before but never had one of the Children resorted to self-murder. It had taken many of his Maiar to ensure that this elven fea was not lost as one of the Unhoused like some of the Secondborn, open to manipulation and corruption by the forces of Shadow. It was whispered among the Children that Morgoth often beguiled such fea who wandered the Outerlands with false promises, and twisted them to serve the Dark Foe. 

 _Forces of Shadow?_ Lord Namo frowned. _Had not Morgoth been cast into the Void? What shadows remained?_ Perhaps he had looked ahead into the Song. There was that fallen Maia who was once Aule’s protégé… _What was his name again?_ He would think about it later, when Finwe was not pounding on his door. Feanor must have sensed the entry of his eldest into the Halls and was kicking up a fuss like he tended to do. When Curufin and his brothers came in, the fiery Feanor had flared up so fiercely he scorched the roof of his room and tapestries in the neighbouring rooms. His lady Valie would not be amused if her precious tapestries were to be damaged again.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it is done. I have killed off Maedhros as per canon. 
> 
> Tolkien toyed with the idea canonic Elvish ghosts (fea that chose not to go to Mandos) also known as the Unhoused but he probably discarded it. I like to imagine all dead elves end up in the Halls of Waiting. In LOTR there were mannish ghosts that could be trapped or manipulated by curses and spells. Aragorn did have to use a ghost army to fight off the Corsairs and the Black Numenoreans. The Ringwraiths were also somewhat like ghosts twisted to serve Sauron.


	26. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor returns Mornel to the camp and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mornel is seriously wounded and Maglor takes her back to the camp.

Maglor cursed as he tied the tourniquet around the stump to stop his sister’s lifeblood from flowing away. It was a clumsy attempt with his badly burnt right hand. Mornel was weak and on the verge of passing out completely. Maedhros’ sword had sliced cleanly through the bone halfway up to the elbow. It was a fine sword crafted by Curufin. He could not fasten the tourniquet enough to stem the blood loss. In desperation, he grabbed a burning branch from the campfire and cauterized the wound the best he could. Mornel gave a cry of pain and went limp. _At least it had worked,_ Maglor noted with grim satisfaction as the bleeding all but stopped. He tore up a shirt from his saddlebag and bound up the stump before gingerly loading his unconscious sister onto Maedhros’ horse. He secured his cloak around her against the cold. The mare nuzzled him, seeking reassurance.

“Good girl,” he patted the mare on the nose and took her reins in his good hand. Still holding the reins, he climbed onto his own horse. “Follow,” he ordered his brother’s mare. The mare would follow him back to the camp. Their horses deserved a lot better than an unknown future on these shores. They deserved a chance to experience the peace of Valinor after a lifetime of toil and battle. As they carefully and steadily wove their way back through the jagged rocks, steaming craters, and gaping chasms, he sang songs of healing to soothe Mornel and ease her pain.

* * *

 

“Oh Lord Manwe, what were they thinking?” Galadriel fidgeted as she waited on the outskirts of the camp with her father and young Elrond. Lord Celeborn had suggested assembling a posse to chase after the Feanorions. He had gone off to rally as many ellyn as he could. Galadriel knew his quest would be in vain. Few of the Vanyar and Noldor would obey him. The majority of the Sindar had long headed to the east where the Silvans spoke of great forests. Among them were Lords Oropher and Amdir.  

She should have been there to stop her cousins. _Surely her Songs of Power would be a match for them, wouldn’t they?_ Let them keep the damned gems, she could have persuaded them to leave Mornel behind, right? News of Mornel’s abduction had reached even Earendil on the Vingilot. The Eagles had set out to observe and track the trio from a distance. They were not to intervene as they did not know how the Feanorions would react. One soon returned with news that Maedhros had leapt into a fiery chasm, and that Maglor was returning to the camp with Mornel.

“Stop it, Artanis, it would not have made any difference even if you were in camp…” Arafinwe patted his daughter on the shoulder. “It’s Galadriel now, atto,” Galadriel gently corrected her father.

Young Elrond drowsed lightly nearby, squatting on his haunches. He had insisted on coming along when he heard news of Maglor and Mornel returning. He had with him a pack of medical supplies he had taken from a healing tent. It was almost the dusk of the second day since the theft that a beleaguered Maglor and Mornel finally appeared on the horizon. Galadriel cried out in dismay at the sight of Mornel’s stump. Arafinwe came forward with his daughter to ease Mornel off Maedhros’ horse. Roused from his reverie, Elrond wasted no time in retrieving fresh bandages and ointments from his pack. Mornel’s eyelids fluttered and she opened her eyes with a soft moan. Elrond exclaimed in horror when he saw the blackened flesh of Maglor’s palm.

“The Silmarils… they burnt us,” Maglor explained. _After all the ill we had done, the Silmarils would not suffer us to hold them._

“My hand…” Mornel moaned weakly as she stirred. “It hurts… Why?”

“Sorry, I’m sorry that had to happen to you, Serelanye, Peace-weaver.” Maglor stroked her brow with his unhurt hand. Elrond hesitated for a moment, deciding whether to tend to Mornel or Maglor first. Seeing that Galadriel was already unwinding the bloodied rags about Mornel’s stump, Elrond turned his attention to his foster father’s burns.

“Serelanye?” Arafinwe asked. Maglor nodded. He kissed his sister lightly on the brow before she slipped back into unconsciousness.

“My brother Maedhros is no longer among the living. As the eldest surviving son of Feanor, I grant Mornel the father-name Serelanye…” Maglor explained. “Please, uncle, continue taking care of her for us…” 

No one really knew what happened after they had finished tending to the injured. Dawn found the four of them waking on the outskirts of the camp with the Feanorions’ two horses tethered nearby. Galadriel’s best guess was that Maglor had sung one of his songs to lull them all into reverie after he declined to accept Arafinwe’s offer to seek clemency from the Valar on the behalf of the House of Feanor. He would rather remain on the Hither Shores until he faded in atonement for all his sins and those of his brothers committed in following their Oath. Maglor had slipped away silently in the night, taking only a few belongings from his saddle bag, including his harp. Among the scrolls of music he left behind on his horse was the _Noldolante._ Afterwards, Mornel would wonder if she had seen his leaving in a fever dream. Her brother leaned over her, sadness in his blue eyes. _Farewell, Peaceweaver, until we meet again…_

For centuries afterwards, whispers would reach Elrond and Galadriel of a mysterious elf-bard wandering the shores singing the most sorrowful of laments. Eventually the sightings slowed and ceased altogether. Maglor would fade into the mists of history despite the efforts of his foster-son to contact him.

* * *

 

 _What of the other surviving child of Feanor?_ Mornel Feanoriel languished with wound-fever on her sickbed for many days, soothed by songs of healing sung over her by her cousin Galadriel and the best ointments and draughts the healers could offer. It was not the shock of her injury that ailed her but the loss of her brothers in such a manner _. Surely Maedhros must be utterly mad to have cut off his sister’s hand,_ the elves whispered. _Perhaps Maglor had gone mad too, to spurn the chance for clemency and return to Valinor._ _What atonement could he possibly hope to achieve by abandoning his family thus?_

Mornel clung onto life despite her fragile state. Between them, Eonwe, Arafinwe, and Olorin arranged for her to be carefully transported to the shore where ships waited to sail for Valinor. On the eve of her scheduled departure, Mornel rallied enough for her friends and family to exchange farewells with her. Galadriel came with her husband Celeborn. They brought willow bark and heartsease to treat Mornel’s fever and grief. Galadriel reaffirmed her decision to remain with her husband. They intended to strike out north- east along a newly-formed gulf with Gil-galad’s followers in search of a new home for the remaining Noldor Exiles. Lord Cirdan had sent a small party there and it had seemed a promising place for a settlement. Celebrimbor and Elrond came next. They chatted briefly, for Mornel was exhausted. Both have decided to remain and serve in Gil-galad’s court.

The next morning, Mornel made the slow arduous journey by wagon to the shore, escorted by Lord Galdor and his manservant Legolas. Both former inhabitants of Gondolin had decided to sail for Valinor. Many other elves would follow, wearied by the sorrows and wars of Beleriand. A healer rode in the wagon with Mornel to tend to her wound. It was not long before Mornel was brought aboard her Aunt Earwen’s ship. Aunt Lalwen was a constant and reassuring presence by her side. After arriving in Valinor, Mornel would be sent to Lorien once she was stable enough. Olorin had reassured them that Mornel’s hand could be restored to her there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maglor has gone wandering the shoreline as in canon. Mornel will return to Valinor and be healed in Lorien.
> 
> Coda – ending movement, section of a piece of music. In a way this is the end of Mornel’s time in Beleriand and her relationship with her brothers.


	27. Return to Valinor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornel clings onto life as grief threatens to overwhelm her. Things have changed in Valinor.

_Damn you, Nelyafinwe…_ Arafinwe bit back a curse. _You too, Makalaure…_ His niece hung on the threshold of Mandos. Mornel’s condition had taken a turn for the worse. Seasickness tormented her despite the relatively calm seas and the wound-fever returned with a vengeance. His sister Lalwen spent many hours praying and tending to her niece. The stump had not healed as well as they had hoped and they had to cut off more of the festering flesh as the days passed.

It was a deep grief that ate at her very fea, Lalwen explained. She had witnessed several such cases after the fall of Gondolin and the Kinslaying at Sirion.

“She would have held on for her nephew Celebrimbor, Gil-galad, and the sons of Earendil,” Lalwen whispered as they watched the healers tend to the wound. “Or perhaps even Maglor if he had remained… but now…”  Mornel’s grief over being maimed and abandoned by her own brothers was not something she could ever hope to understand. She did not know if even Lorien could help her. Miriel had faded in Lorien despite everything… Too many grievously wounded elves had perished before they could take ship. Even aboard the ships, there was no guarantee of survival.

“Full sails!” Arafinwe commanded as he strode out of the cabin. Perhaps if they could reach Valinor sooner…

* * *

_Alqualonde_

The two elflings were guests of Queen Falmiril in the royal palace of the Teleri. Now they were squabbling over a choice perch atop the palace’s tallest tower. Both sported unruly blond locks and blue eyes, such that they could have been mistaken for brothers. The elder was on the cusp of adulthood. The younger was a mere child prone to a child’s impatience. Both were clad in finery befitting their royal status.

“Let me see!” the younger elfling wheedled as he scampered onto the roof. His older companion ignored him, peering earnestly into the sea mist on the horizon. He scowled. The sun was rising and he could not stare eastwards for long with Arien’s fire blinding him. He moved over so that his companion might have a go looking into the east.

“Sails!” the younger prince cried out in excitement.

“Ai! You two get down here now!” Prince Raumeldo yelled from the courtyard. The Master of Ships had been tasked with looking for the missing princes after their mothers found them missing from their rooms. “Wait, stay put. We will come get you,” Prince Eareldo added as he joined his brother in the courtyard below. The roof of the tallest tower was not somewhere his mother would like her guests to end up falling from.

Soon Prince Ingil, son of Crown Prince Ingwion and Lady Elsornie, and Prince Celeglass, son of Prince Finrod and Lady Amarie, were reunited with their mothers on the dock. Both mothers gently rebuked their sons while exchanging knowing glances over their heads. Prince Finrod had galloped post-haste from Tirion through the night once he had received news of his father’s imminent return. Now he stood pale and exhausted beside his royal uncles and grandmother. The Teleri had gathered by the thousands along the coast to welcome their king home with song.

Lady Elsornie had borne her son in Tirion and raised him. Bearing and raising a child without a husband present was considered scandalous and Ingwe had suggested rather forcefully that the Crown Princess leave Valmar once her condition became apparent and leave the infant with kin outside the city until Ingwion’s return. Elsornie had stubbornly refused to obey the command to leave her child to the care of others and sought refuge with Lady Indis in Tirion.

It was several years after Ingil’s birth that Amarie announced she was with child. Celeglass, or Agile Leaf, would be born the following fall. He was the first prince of the Noldor born in Valinor to be given a Sindarin father-name. It was quickly noted that the young prince had an adventurous bent and lacked the serene nature of his parents. Celeglass had the fiery temperament of his uncle Angarato in his youth. Trouble seemed to follow at his heels. It was jested that when the Regent Finrod begot his son he had been distracted by some mischievous puppies. The elfling had an affinity with canines such that it took his parents ages to get him to sit at the dinner table instead of joining the hounds under it. It fell onto Ingil to take the rambunctious youngster under his wing.

“He will be back, Sorna…” Amarie reassured her friend. Elsornie nodded. She had already received news of her daughters’ deaths from Lady Nienna’s Maiar back in the early years of the War.

“Will atar be pleased with me, amme?” Ingil frowned as he glanced at his mother. Elsornie nodded. “Of course he will be, dearest yonya.” Prince Finrod had treated her and her son with great courtesy. Prince Finrod had acted as a father-figure to Ingil, ensuring he was taught in all the necessary skills befitting a noble. However, Ingil was a sensitive soul who felt the rejection of his grandfather Ingwe keenly despite the affection he was surrounded with in Tirion. In truth, Ingwe did not know what to make of the grandson who had been educated by Noldor standards rather than Vanyar ones. Their few meetings were often awkward and Ingil found the Valmarian protocols tiresome. 

Young Celeglass danced circles about his father with his wolfhounds, until Earlindo bribed him into sitting down with the promise of a tale. The ships of the armada were now visible from the docks. Prince Raumeldo and his men took small pilot boats out to meet the armada and guide them into port. Joyous song filled the air. Finrod glanced over to where his youngest uncle stood with his love. Earlindo and Serelinde stood apart from the crowd, hand-in-hand, half-hopeful, half-dreading. The growing love between them was clear to all by now. Yet Serelinde was a married nis, to Makalaure no less. If he chose not to return or gave his permission, there might be a chance his wife might be freed from their bond. They loved Makalaure and would not betray him so readily.

Slowly, the ships docked at the wharves and their passengers disembarked. King Olwe and his daughter Earwen were warmly embraced by their people. Arafinwe was greeted by his son, law-daughter, and his grandson. He scooped Celeglass up in his arms and spun the laughing elfling round. Ingwion tearfully embraced his wife and son in a rare show of Vanyarin emotion. He kissed his son on the brow and apologized for missing so much of his childhood.

The joyous songs of the Teleri wavered when the first of the injured were brought ashore. There were elves who had lost limbs, or were blinded by dragon-fire. Serelinde wept at the sight for it reminded her of the aftermath of the First Kinslaying. Even young Celeglass’ exuberance waned and he hid behind his father’s robes The Teleri’s song died entirely when Lady Mornel was brought on shore.

“Poor child!” Queen Falmiril disentangled herself from her husband and hastened to Mornel’s side. It was clear that she lingered on the edge of Mandos. The crossing had not been kind to her and she was close to fading. More conspicuous was the absence of her brothers among the arrivals. Whispers of Maglor’s and Maedhros’ theft of the Silmarils spread like wildfire as soon as the first of the Host landed on Alqualonde. 

“Where’s Makalaure?” Earlindo demanded. Lord Ulmo rose from the sea, having accompanied the armada back to Valinor.

“Peace, Makalaure Feanarion has requested that the matrimonial bond between him and Serelinde be rendered void,” Lord Ulmo announced. “It is his desire to remain on the Hither Shores to atone for his sins.”

“He’ll be gone a long time then!” Raumeldo replied with a dry laugh. Earlindo glared at him, and would have hit his brother but Mornel was more important. As much as he hated to admit it, Makalaure’s request to sever his bond with Serelinde opened up the possibility that he might be able to wed her.  Serelinde was by Mornel’s stretcher, mopping her sweat-beaded brow with her handkerchief.

Maiar tended to the wounded and readied them for the journey by wagon to Lorien. Mornel would linger for a fortnight in Olwe’s palace, slowly regaining the much-needed strength to make the long journey to Lorien. Her right arm now ended at the elbow, where the festering rot finally stopped. The fever came and went as she fought not only her injured hroa but the grief inflicted on her fea. Her friends and family were constantly at her side, praying for her recovery and soothing her with Songs of Healing.

In light of her brave deeds during the War of Wrath, Lord Manwe sent an Eagle to bear her in a basket to Lorien by air. Thus Lady Mornel was brought to Lorien and healed by the Valar’s grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could not resist adding a son and a grandson to Arafinwe and Ingwion’s families. There might be a few more chapters covering her recovery and acceptance of her brothers’ actions and choice. There might not be a wedding that soon for Earlindo and Serelinde. They might want to wait a bit longer for the gossips to cool off a bit before marrying.


	28. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornel goes through a period of recuperation in Lorien and meets another cousin newly freed from Mandos.

Mornel sat idly on the doorstep of her Aunt Findis’ cottage in Lorien, watching butterflies dance in the garden. She had been put into a deep healing sleep and rowed over to Lady Este’s isle where the most severely injured elves were treated, including those who had lost limbs. She had not been asked whether she would allow her hand to be restored to her. Her uncle made that decision for her as she hovered on Mandos’ doorstep. There were a handful of elven warriors, mainly of Silvan and Sindar descent, who had declined to regain their lost limbs, choosing instead to wear their scars as a badge of honour. She had awoken without any scars or signs of the War on her hroa. Even her disfigured ear had been repaired. The War could have been a mere dream, were it not for the nightmares and the lingering shadow of grief upon her fea.

Mornel held out her right hand, feeling the warmth of the sun on it. Aunt Findis had noticed it first. Mornel had been right-handed as a child. Now she favoured her left hand. She was told to exercise her right hand so that it would not weaken. Her aunts had been so kind to her during her long convalescence. Aunt Lalwen had come to Lorien to recover from her own grief but she was now assisting the healers. She could hear the sisters chatting in the kitchen as they sorted dried herbs for poultices and tisanes. After so long apart, they had much to catch up on.

Aunt Lalwen’s husband Turcaranco had come from Tirion to seek out his wife. Findis had turned him away initially, claiming her patient needed rest. However, Findis eventually relented and allowed the couple to meet for an hour each day under her supervision. In the following weeks, those visits soon became unsupervised and lasted the entire afternoon, until his duties in Tirion demanded Turcaranco’s return. Lalwen had mended her ties with her husband the best they could. There was a rumour that their son Laurefindil would be released from Mandos soon.

Her amil had visited but Nerdanel was not one to be idle. A week later she was headed for the Mansions of Aule to refine her pottery skills. It seemed her amil had started experimenting with new glazes and firing techniques for her ceramics. She did leave a lovely multi-coloured vase for Findis’ table which Mornel filled with fresh spring blooms for her aunt. Her grandfather visited on occasion from Aule’s Mansions. He left a set of copper goblets studded with rubies for Findis, which her aunt found too gaudy. She sent the set off to her brother in Tirion. Mornel received a copper songbird which sang when one turned the key in its back.

Mahtan, Helwien, and Eldalote had sent reports on what has been going on at Formenos during her absence. New workshops had been added and a water-mill built in the upper valley for flour. Mornel was greatly relieved that the keep was still standing and the neighbouring Avari and Silvan clans were at peace with them. The myriad tribes and clan ties of the north was a diplomatic mire at the best of times. News had spread of her brothers’ roles in her injury and the theft of the Silmarils. Their actions were firmly decried by all in Formenos. Her people sent her a blanket woven of the finest wool from Formenos in hopes of her recovery. This she now wore draped about her shoulders like a shawl. Cold was a problem many recovering elves were plagued by. Findis had theorized it had something to do with the weakness of the fea and hroa.

No one knew when Mornel would be able to return to Formenos to lead them. Some at the royal courts of Tirion and Valmar rejoiced secretly that the little upstart settlement would not challenge the main cities of the Noldor and Vanyar under a child of Feanaro. There was still a significant faction that believed a nis had no place leading despite Formenos having been transformed from a wasteland to a thriving community.

“Greetings!” a bright voice called out, snapping Mornel out of her reverie. A handsome ner with golden tresses and smiling eyes was leaning against the low stone wall which surrounded the cottage. “I believe this handsome fella’s yours?”

“Fearocco!” Mornel squealed in delight as she saw her horse sulking behind him. With him was a snowy-white horse. Mornel ran through the open gate and hugged her steed about the neck. The white horse nuzzled her curiously, earning himself a nip from Fearocco.

“Asfaloth’s mine,” the ner explained as he pulled his horse out of the reach of Fearocco’s teeth and hooves. “I just got him from Lord Orome. Oh, I think I forgot to introduce myself… “

The golden-haired ner bowed in a courtly manner and took Mornel’s hand in his. “Dear lady, I am Glorfindel, Lord of the Golden Flower, formerly of Gondolin… I bring tidings from…”

“Laurefindil!” A flash of buttercup-yellow skirts and dark hair ran past Mornel, all but knocking Glorfindel off his feet.

“Amil!”

Lalwen laughed and hugged her son.

* * *

Weeks passed. Mornel and her cousin Glorfindel sparred under Aunt Findis’ watchful eye. The exercise strengthened Mornel’s weak right hand and Glorfindel’s muscles. The daily rides on their horses helped too. On learning Mornel was trained in archery, Glorfindel obtained a bow and quiver from Lord Orome’s lodge. Archery needed the use of both hands, he reasoned, and provided much needed exercise. He was cheerful company and it seemed the darkness of the long years spent in Beleriand had been lifted completely from him with his re-embodiment. Mornel hoped that it would be so for her friends and family still in Mandos. Glorfindel put up with his mother’s constant fussing the best he could but when things got unbearable, he would suggest they ride the horses out.  

More valuable to Mornel was the word he brought from Mandos concerning her father and brothers. This he shared with her on those long rides. Feanor was recovering but still refused to meet with his brother Fingolfin. Maedhros had been whisked off to Lady Nienna’s care as soon as his fea arrived. Glorfindel had spoken with Celegorm, and almost came to blows with him over what happened to poor Cousin Finrod. Curufin had wisely kept out of his way during his time in the Halls. Caranthir was still fuming at everyone from the Valar to his brothers over the debacle of the Second Kinslaying when they last chatted. The Ambarussa were healing well after being reunited in Mandos.

“There was a pair of twin Vanyar sisters with them who asked me to send you their love – Lomire and Isilmire… They should be out soon, if Lord Namo grants their request.”

“What request might that be?” Mornel asked as she threaded a daisy into her cousin’s hair as he lazed against her lap. Glorfindel had gloriously long tresses like spun gold. The bards of Beleriand claimed the Balrog he slew had pulled him to his doom using his hair. He still wore his hair free without any braids where a more cautious elf would have resorted to tying it back and hiding it under a cap as many smiths did lest they set their own hair aflame.

“To leave with their beloveds – we understand the ellyn in question are Kinslayers. They met in the Halls, if you are wondering…”

“Ingwe would not be pleased…” Mornel replied as she lay back on the grass. Her friends would be in the Halls a while longer. Lord Namo had only been moved to mercy once, by Luthien. The High King would be outraged his granddaughters had chosen Kinslayers for their spouses. There was a hint of a smile on Glorfindel’s lips which suggested he knew more about the ellyn who had won the twins’ hearts. 

“My grandfather is hard to please…” a voice called out. The pair sat up and saw Prince Ingil astride a brown pony. “Celeglass fell out of a tree, the tall white one in Tirion’s Great Square. He hurt his back quite badly. Lady Indis asked me to keep him company on the road to Lorien. We just got here and the healers are looking at his injuries,” the Vanya explained.

“Oh dear,” Mornel winced with sympathy. Galathilion was a tall tree and the surrounding ground unfortunately was more cobbles than grass. Any fall would be hard and painful.

“So you intend to return to Tirion after this?” Glorfindel asked. Ingil shook his head.

“I am heading to Taniquentil tomorrow. Master Rumil wrote a letter of recommendation for me to access the archives there. Master Olorin has just brought me Lord Manwe’s approval,” the young elf’s eyes were aglow with excitement. Lord Manwe’s library was highly esteemed, more so among the Vanyar. Most of the texts were in Valarin and few, even among the Noldor, were well-versed in the language. Even fewer had been granted access to the scrolls there. A Maia would be assigned to translate the scrolls for any visiting elf into an early form of Quenya which was more like quasi-Valarin.

Mornel had heard glowing reports of Ingil’s academic achievements from her cousin Finrod. He was already a member of the Lambengolmor despite his youth and many claimed he was second only to Feanor. Ingil had assisted Finrod in the compiling and editing a Khuzdul dictionary during the past two decades. Celeglass’ achievements were more in the arena of sports and the hunt. Arrangements had been made to apprentice him to Lords Orome or Tulkas once he was mature enough to take instruction.

For a while the trio sat there in the sunlight, enjoying the peace of the gardens. Ingil suddenly murmured an obscure quasi-Valarin word under his breath, causing Glorfindel to start when he grasped the meaning of the word.

“It means something like restlessness, wanderlust, but driven by destiny…” the younger ellon explained. “There is a touch of that on you, my lord Glorfindel.”

“Perhaps there is a touch of that on Lady Mornel too,” Glorfindel replied. He turned his gaze towards where the Pelori still soared like a fence on the eastern flank of Aman. Glorfindel was very much like his father in build and colouring. However, there was a restless energy about him which seemed barely caged where his father had an air of calm confidence.

 _One day, Lord of the Golden Flower, you will head east, back to the Hither Shores…_ Mornel shook her head, wondering what had placed that almost blasphemous thought into her mind. The Valar had forbidden the elves of Valinor to return east after the end of the War, though there were whispers some exceptions were made for elves to sail to the new lands of the Edain to teach them the high skills of metal-working and other crafts. An elf freed from Mandos was banned from sailing even to fight in the War of Wrath, as was the case with Finrod. Mornel shook her head when an image of young Elrond popped into her mind, only that he was no longer young but a leader of a people like Cirdan was. 

* * *

On a bright spring day, the healers declared Mornel was ready to leave Lorien. Glorfindel had left Lorien the previous fall for the House of Lord Tulkas despite his mother’s pleas to stay a little longer. Lalwen would return to her husband in Tirion shortly after before the first frosts touched Formenos. They had planned to move away from the Noldor court once Turcaranco had settled his courtly duties. It seemed a pity Glorfindel had not thought to visit Tirion and his adar after so long away. Perhaps he would visit his parents at their new home after he left Lord Tulkas’.

Her law-sister Helwien came to fetch her to Formenos, as did Eldalote. They would ride to Formenos on horseback. Even Fearocco behaved himself in the presence of the other horses. Riding through the peaceful wilds of Aman was a joy after the years of danger in Beleriand. En route Mornel learnt that Serelinde and Prince Earlindo were granted permission to wed by the Valar and King Olwe. It was reasoned by Olwe as well as Arafinwe that since Maglor had decided not to return, Serelinde should be free to wed again. It was the same situation as Finwe and Miriel. Moreover, Lord Ulmo heartily approved of the match.

The only half-hearted protest came from the court at Valmar but no one was really taking Ingwe that seriously. In fact, it was rumoured that the purpose of his own grandson’s visit to the archives of Lord Manwe was to find the original laws set regarding multiple marriages which were common among the First Elves. A debate was scheduled in Tirion regarding the legality of the match as happened with the union of Finwe and Indis. The last debate had ended in a stalemate. The outcome of this debate would not affect the marriage plans of her friends. Eldalote informed her that Earlindo and his new bride would move to Tol Eressea and intended to visit the Edain’s lands should they be allowed to do so.

Mornel’s heart soared as they approached the familiar mountains of the north. Soon they spotted the eight-rayed star banners of Formenos. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A touch of foresight regarding Glorfindel’s future destiny. I intend to close this arc with a triumphant return to Formenos by Mornel and rest from further adventures for a while.


	29. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mornel returns to a warm welcome from her people.

“Any sign of them yet?” Mahtan called out to the white-robed ellon perched atop the watch tower. Assorted apprentices scurried about the master smith. Glorfindel laughed and shimmied down the side of the tower where wooden scaffolding had been set up for some repairs. Work was constantly being carried out somewhere in the fortress. Having craftspeople of a creative and daring bent about had a tendency to see a workshop or two go up in smoke every few months. Plans were made for metal-workers and alchemists to be moved to a field outside the fortress walls as a result, once the council agreed on the logistics.  

“Yes, I see three nissi on horseback approaching the bridge. One is atop a large grey horse,” Glorfindel leapt down the last few feet. His father Turcaranco bellowed out instructions to assemble the welcoming party. Lady Lalwen had insisted that she should be among those welcoming Mornel back home to Formenos, even if it meant an uncomfortable ride from Tirion with her husband when the frosts were still on Formenos. She argued that having survived the Grinding Ice, what was a touch of frost to her? She had been astounded by how Formenos was thriving in spite of the relatively harsh north. No wonder some of those back in Tirion were jealous.

 _We’re home…_ Mornel sighed in her mind with pure bliss. On a spur, she dug her heels into Fearocco’s flanks. _Go! Let’s jump it!_ Fearocco tossed his head with a wicked glint in his eye and galloped ahead of their companions. Mornel threw her arms up into the air and laughed freely. With a graceful leap they cleared the chasm the bridge spanned over. A few more miles brought them up to the gate of Formenos, which were thrown wide open to receive them. Glorfindel stepped forward to help Mornel dismount by lifting her in his arms.

“Aunt Lalwen! Grandfather! Cousin Glorfindel? How did you get here?” Mornel greeted all her family and friends in turn. Fearocco allowed a stable hand to lead him off to a well-earned brushing and a meal of oats.

“I rode a Great Eagle from Lord Tulkas’ House,” Glorfindel explained. He set her down on her feet amid cheers from the inhabitants of Formenos.

“Serelinde and your amil sent their apologies. They are unable to travel here due to preparations for the wedding. Prince Earlindo would like to schedule it in midsummer – just after the Tirion loremasters’ big debate is expected to end,” Lalwen added as she hugged Mornel. Lalwen was wearing a bright green gown with a red shawl. Her hair was tied back in a simple braid. She could have passed for another nis at Formenos if it weren’t for the fine rings on her fingers. Mornel wondered which one was her wedding band. It could be the plain silver one.

“The prince has commissioned some new statues from your amil for their new home. Lady Serelinde needs to be given a course in Telerin courtly manners, but really, I think it is just an excuse for Earwen to help her prepare a wardrobe fit for a royal bride. I hear that the Vanya Crown princess Sorna has been in touch with Earwen…”

Mornel nodded politely as her aunt updated her on the latest gossip from Tirion. In the peace of Aman, gossip was one of the few entertainments enjoyed by the Eldar. There was naturally an invitation to the wedding for Mornel and she was glad to accept it.  There was a feast planned that very night to celebrate her return, Turcaranco announced. Meanwhile, there would be puppet-shows for the little ones and competitions of skill for their elders. Glorfindel assisted her awarding the prizes for the wrestling and archery competitions knowing how tired she would be from her journey. 

There were gifts aplenty for her. A Nandor chieftain presented her with a beautifully-made bow and quiver. An Avari warrior-chief travelled to Formenos from the distant south to present her with a leopard skin cloak. She blessed the new elflings born at Formenos or brought here by their Avarin or Nandor parents. A young bard composed a heroic ballad in her honour which only embarrassed her immensely. Glorfindel received the same treatment when the bard sang of his last duel with the Balrog.

The hours flew by and the sun soon set. The inhabitants and their guests gathered in the open courtyard under the stars for there was little space in the halls. Moreover, their Avarin and Nandor guests disliked being surrounded by stone walls. It was not long before Mornel was yawning and trying not to fall asleep into her pudding. She had spent only an hour between her arrival and the games to freshen up and rest.

Seeing his granddaughter’s increasing exhaustion, Mahtan called an end to the celebrations within the castle courtyard in favour of night-long revelries on the lake shore. While the partying elves danced their way out to the lake, Mornel was quietly whisked off to her chambers for a well-earned rest. The celebrations would continue into the wee hours of the next day.

* * *

Mornel rose from her bed when the sun was high in the sky. She had slumbered deeply. She remembered with a smile the dream Lord Irmo had sent her.

She had been in the Halls, or at least a dream-vision of them. She had seen her family, well, some of them. She recognized Pityo, and the identical elf next to him could only be his twin Telvo. There was a ruddy-faced ner who introduced himself as Caranthir and grudgingly complimented her for her work in Formenos. There was a tall, regal-looking elf who hugged her and declared how proud he was of his granddaughter. To her dismay, there was no sign of Feanor or Maedhros. Already the memory of the dream was slipping away from her.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” Tatie declared as she threw open the door of Mornel’s bedchamber with a well-aimed nudge from her boot. A laden breakfast tray was in her hands. She set the tray on the side table and tied back the bed curtains.

“Have you come to remind me of some council meeting with the Avari, Tatie?” Mornel asked.

“Nay, milady. There’s no meeting – most of us are still sleeping off the wine from last night,” Tatie replied. She placed her hands on Mornel’s shoulders and looked her over.

“Hm, after all that battling dragons and orcs, the Maiar of Loien did not leave you any scars to show what a brave little warrior you are?”

“I think not…” Mornel replied.

“Never mind, would you like a tattoo instead?” Tatie asked. She explained to Mornel over breakfast that the early elves had a custom of tattooing their warriors when they returned from a battle with the creatures of darkness. The custom had been retained by several of the re-embodied Avari and Nandor who, like Tatie, insisted on having their skins tattooed as they did in their first lives. Tatie took out a piece of parchment from her belt-pouch. For the next two hours, the pair discussed the tattoos favoured by various clans and their symbolism.

* * *

 

“You did what?” Glorfindel’s parents almost fell out of their chairs when Mornel displayed her new tattoo at dinner. Mahtan only chuckled. He had his own tattoo from his youth before the Great Journey, but it was on his chin and hidden by his beard when it grew in. Glorfindel was nonchalant. It was a modest one compared to those many of the Avari wore. Blue tendrils of flame-like leaves twined around her wrist like a bracelet. More prominent was the Feanorion star on the back of her right palm.

“It is very Sindar…” Lalwen conceded. Tattoos were not a Noldor custom, although it was rumoured that the most dedicated followers of Lord Orome wore tattoos in honour of their master. Celegorm’s choice of long sleeves at his grandfather’s court in Tirion after attending the annual Great Hunt was the source of much speculation. Celegorm continued wearing long-sleeved tunics for the rest of the time Lalwen knew him. Aredhel had a small tattoo of a falcon put on her ankle in defiance of her parents during a time in her youth when she was considering entering Lord Orome’s Lodge as one of his hunting fellows.

“Fire-vine,” Mahtan recognized the plant depicted on his granddaughter’s skin. “The vine which is the first to grow back after a fire.” No wonder Tatie had been nosing about the workshops for inks and pigments.

“Tatie told me it is a symbol of rebirth and new beginnings. I wish there could be a new beginning for our family with the lifting of the Exile on our people… especially my atto and brothers…” Mornel explained.

“The road for them will be long and hard,” Mahtan conceded. “You are much loved and respected, child, here in Formenos and beyond. As for your brothers and atto, I fear few elves will look kindly on them for what has passed since the Darkening.”

“Take heart, cousin,” Glorfindel added cheerfully. “I am sure Lord Namo would let them out eventually, and they would be so amazed by what you have achieved here. More venison? I’ll carve…” He flicked his long tresses over his shoulder as he reached for the carving knife. Mornel smiled when she noted a fresh tattoo of an eagle’s wing peeking out from under his tunic. Lady Tatie and her needles had been busy indeed. 

* * *

 

_Vaire’s Halls_

“It will be a long while, wouldn’t it?” Lady Vaire asked her husband as they observed the latest tapestry. Her handmaiden Miriel had outdone herself even in a modest depiction of a cosy family scene. Rapt in concentration, her protege barely acknowledged their presence.

Lord Namo nodded. Feanor still burned with that wild passion which had driven him in life, although it was much more restrained now with Finwe’s company. A broken Maedhros was put under Nienna’s care. Maglor was still among the living, but lost across the Sea. Celegorm and Curufin were still simmering in their rage against the Valar and even their own kin. They were allowed to wander the Halls at will, so far as the outraged elves from Nargothrond and the Kinslayings would allow them. He had to stop Thingol from arranging a hunting party of sorts when he heard about what happened to his grandson and great-grandsons. Slowly but surely, he would release the elves as they healed or repented. _Some sooner than others._

Yet there was some hope even for the Feanorions. Caranthir peered up cautiously from where he was sorting thread at his grandmother’s feet. He had somehow wandered into the weavers’ hall one day and set himself down at her feet as if he were an elfling. Here it was possible for him to assist his grandmother with her work and perhaps learn patience at the same time. His twin brothers were spotted in one of the deeper halls favoured by the Avari with Ingwe’s granddaughters. Nothing should be able to be made or unmade in Mandos but somehow the two couples had found each other. Already his Maiar had been receiving requests from the minxes to have their beaus released alongside them. Well, they could continue waiting a while longer before he would consider their request. It was too soon after Luthien, and he had a reputation to keep.    

“Do you think Ingwe will jump for joy when he hears his granddaughters are considering marriage instead of service to our law-sister Este?” Vaire smiled as she checked a pattern on her loom.

“He will until he learns who captured their hearts. Then we can expect him to demand us to take the Feanorions back into my Halls,” Namo laughed, startling many of those who knew him better for his stern manner.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am stopping this story arc here. Not sure if I will be continuing this series. If I do, it might be in a different style.


End file.
